


The Manny Diaries

by abovetheserpentine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, sort of idk i figure i may as well, the nanny diaries au no one asked for but lbr everyone wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the Nanny Diaries AU no one asked for. Expect some angst, a plethora of strong independent women who don't need no men, fuzzy feels, and older brother!Bucky with a penchant for ruining his step-mother's life one nanny at a time. Steve doesn't know what he's got himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright, so i rewatched The Nanny Diaries a few weeks ago and i was like WAIT. HOLD ON. WHAT IF STEVE ROGERS WAS A NANNY?? and of course i had to make it stucky and so this happened. no regrets.

Kids are great. Truly. It’s just that Steve doesn’t really know how he ended up taking care of them.

Art school was years ago, the tang of failure still lingering in his mouth when he signed his name on an enlistment form. The army felt good – productive. His newfound strength after high school drove him to pick up the barrel of a gun and practice, to make use of his physicality in ways he never did before. Going on ten mile runs became the norm, the days of asthma and sicknesses too stubborn to stay away being left behind in their wake.

But the armed forces had its downsides and after two tours Steve said goodbye to the guns but not to the nightmares, watching the turn of his bed sheets in the washing machine more days than not these days.

How Steve ended up looking after a little girl aged nine was a different story altogether. One he’s not entirely sure how to tell.

“It’s not– I don’t–”

A business card is shoved into his lax hands, and Steve is still too busy staring dumbly at the harried woman before him to look at it too closely.

“You’d be perfect, Rebecca is _very_ active.”

Said little girl smiles sunnily up at him, and Steve can’t help but give a small one of his own in return.

“ _Call_ me.” Mrs…

Steve looks down at the card.

Mrs Barnes has hips that jerk from side to side as she attempts to hastily walk away in high heels whilst calling distractedly behind her for her daughter, who remains in front of Steve.

The Barnes girl’s brown eyes have an edge of mischief to them as she bids him goodbye.

He’s not at all certain how, but Steve thinks he’s just got himself a job.

Well, it’s not like he was doing anything of note, anyway. Art school still makes his stomach squirm and his heart heavy, and no one’s too keen to hire an unreliable twenty-five year old Iraq vet with mild PTSD.

 

*

 

Waiting three days to call Mrs Barnes is all the advice Steve’s brain can provide him in matters of following up private childcare employment opportunities, even though a voice that sounds disturbingly like Sam lets him know that it’s the standard wait time to call a lady after a successful date. 

Steve waits three days.

“Mrs Barnes? Ma’am? It’s Steve. Uhh, the guy from the park? The one your daughter ran into when she was running away? Yes, that’s me. You asked me to call you, so–”

“Steven, I’m _so_ glad you’ve called.” And Mrs Barnes does sound glad – relieved, as well, if the obnoxious piano playing in the background counts for anything, “Can we meet today? I’d like to run our schedule by you, reassure myself that you’re up to the task.”

Words die in Steve’s throat as Mrs Barnes continues without pause.

“Shall we say one o’clock, Candle 79 on 79th? Perfect. I’ll see you in a few hours, Steven.”

Steve googles Candle 79 and decides to eat a roast beef sandwich beforehand. He’s sure the food is wonderful, but he’s spent enough of his life eating less than he truly needs to willingly do so now.

It’ll take him about forty minutes to get to 79th street from his apartment in Brooklyn, and Steve’s readied himself in twenty minutes. He looks at his watch, and decides a little research into childcare might make it tick a little less conspicuously over the next hour wait. Annie looks at him from his bed, ears floppy and eyes sleepy. Steve momentarily wishes he were a dog, free from the worries of impressing judgmental mothers.

As Steve takes the subway to the Upper East Side, he realises he might be in a little over his head. The idea of looking after another _person_ , a human being with feelings and wants and needs and friends and family and a _life_ , seems like too much. Steve struggles to remember where he is when he wakes up a few days a week, mistakes car backfires for bomb blasts and toy guns for real weapons. Steve is not the man for this job, despite Mrs Barnes’s presumption of his suitability. Mrs Barnes’s judgement can’t be _trusted_ – she’s a _vegan_ , and Steve’s not.

The sudden thought that her child might also be a vegan makes Steve’s palms sweat.

He’s just about to turn around and make the trip back home when he realises he’s outside the restaurant, neck itchy and eyes twitchy.

The door behind him opens, and Steve squints away the burn of the sun on his irises as a disapproving voice addresses him.

“Steven! What are you doing loitering out here? I already have a table. Get inside!”

As Mrs Barnes comes into view, so does her expectant expression, and Steve jumps to attention, used to following orders and taking to it again like a fish to water.

“So, Steven. What is it that you do?”

Steve halts his nervous fiddling of the cutlery at Mrs Barnes’s sharp look, and places his clammy hands in his lap. He’d gladly nodded along and given affirmatives to Mrs Barnes’s complaints about finding good vegan food, and how her last nanny decided school was more important than Mrs Barnes’s daughter. Which Steve decides to carefully ignore. His shoulders feel too big for his shirt, like the collar is going to rip at the seams and he’ll be exposed for the fake he is.

“Well, at the moment I’m not.” Mrs Barnes keeps gazing at him and Steve stumbles to save the conversation. “Doing anything, that is. I’m a vet.”

Mrs Barnes raises an eyebrow but is momentarily distracted by the arrival of their food; an unknown concoction is placed in front of Steve and an identical meal in front of Mrs Barnes. Steve had trusted the seasoned vegan to make his choice, mostly because Steve didn’t know half of what was on the menu and was slightly afraid to ask. Call it the inner skinny fifteen year old inside him.

“Well, Rebecca adores animals. We don’t have any pets, however, so your expertise won’t be needed there.” Mrs Barnes answers.

It takes Steve a few seconds to realise exactly what his prospective employer is saying before he feels the familiar but still uncomfortable blush grace his clean-shaven cheeks.

“That is to say,” Steve hurries to correct, reaching up to nervously scratch his jaw, “I’m a veteran. Of war. Not that I don’t love animals!” He realises he’s pushed his hands forward in an act of placation, but Mrs Barnes seems stunned by the movement and so he quickly pulls them back into his lap. “Animals are great. I have a dog, myself.”

There’s a pause where Mrs Barnes seems to come back to herself, rearranging her features into an expression that Steve supposes is meant to be sympathetic. He hasn’t seen anything like it for a while and so he can’t be entirely sure.

“Well,” Mrs Barnes begins, cutting delicately into her kale as the restaurant bustles around them, “I’m sorry to hear you went through that. But I suppose this can only mean you’ll be well-equipped to protect my daughter from any… unsavoury characters.”

Steve only manages to nod, hoping he’s not going to have to face any particularly unsavoury characters whilst he looks after a nine year old girl.

The rest of the interview goes as smoothly as can be expected with little participation on Steve’s part as Mrs Barnes relays the duties he will be required to do and the type of girl Rebecca is. Which, Mrs Barnes is implying, is a perfect one. Or, with the right measures, will become one soon enough.

“– suppose you won’t have to worry about that until Rebecca turns twelve at the earliest, so no need to think about that now.” She waves a hand, flippant and measured. “Do you have any questions?”

Steve gives the wide smile he used to give Peggy before she nearly pinched his cheeks bloody berating him for pretending with her.

“None at all, ma’am.”

Mrs Barnes gives a satisfied smile.

“Perfect. Let me show you the house.”

It seems Steve needs to get used to having his own personal chauffeur, for Mrs Barnes has one and Steve has no doubts that he’ll be using the same service to take Rebecca to her ‘educational and culturally diverse leisure activities’ which are to be decided upon weekly by Mrs Barnes herself. Steve begins to wonder how he ever got by as a kid with just his skinny elbows and a sketchpad if Mrs Barnes believes these formal parts of Rebecca’s life are so crucial. 

The Barnes’s home is lavish – incredibly expensive, definitely holding way too many delicate ornaments for Steve to be able to touch anything with confidence, and decidedly un-homely. It’s what he pictured from speaking to Mrs Barnes, but seeing it is a whole new reality Steve isn’t sure he’s come to terms with quite just yet.

“And in here is where you’ll be sleeping.”

Steve’s brain halts suddenly, and he stares at Mrs Barnes as she opens the door to what seems to be a shoebox. Actually, it’s probably smaller. 

“Mrs Barnes, ma’am, I’m–“ Steve begins tentatively, searching the woman’s bland smile for any semblance of willingness to negotiate. “I can’t live here.” 

She looks confused.

“Of course you can live here, Steven.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” Steve scratches his jaw again, laughing awkwardly. “It’s– I mean, I have a dog…” Mrs Barnes doesn’t seem to be swayed, “And the night terrors! I… it’s not good for me to be around other people, the noises…”

It seems to be enough. Mrs Barnes’s face falls into her sympathetic smile once more, just like at the restaurant, and she pets his arm like he’s a caged animal. Which, Steve supposes, is what he feels like. Annie would never have forgiven him for leaving her to Peggy for an extended period of time; Peggy, who wouldn’t take her on five mile runs at six in the morning; Peggy, who actually sleeps. Unlike Steve. 

“I don’t live far. I’ll be around in the mornings before everyone wakes, and I’ll leave after they’re asleep. Truly,” Steve adds at Mrs Barnes’s slightly sceptical look, “it’s fine.”

Steve decides not to mention to her his difficulties with even falling asleep, period, and instead says he will most likely take her up on her offer to stay the night in the room if he needs.

They’re just finishing up in the kitchen, Mrs Barnes pushing a formal contract into his hands to sign with a fountain pen. Steve can’t remember if he’s ever used one before, but he manages a relatively legible signature just as the front door is pushed open and slammed shut, rattling in its frame with the force of it. Mrs Barnes’s pleased smile turns icy, and she closes her eyes briefly in annoyance before turning toward the new guest. 

“James,” Mrs Barnes greets through pursed lips.

The newcomer is someone Steve didn’t expect a person like Mrs Barnes to ever associate with, let alone know on a first name basis. But Steve supposes he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Which, he admits guiltily to himself, is exactly what he’s been doing all afternoon.

It’s a young man, probably about Steve’s age, maybe a little younger. He’s wearing tattered jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair is messy, and he’s got stubble that’s probably a few days old. He’s tall and he’s lean, but Steve sees strength in the way the muscles of his forearms bunch as his fists clench.

“Winifred,” James snaps, and Steve looks intently at the contract before him, reading over it like he hasn’t already perused the fine print and signed the damn thing.

“Who’s this?” James demands, and Steve looks up with reluctance to meet a defiant gaze.

Well. At least Steve doesn’t have to look after _this_ guy. He imagines he’d be a pain in the ass.

“Steve Rogers.” Steve announces, putting down the contract and moving forward, extending a hand to James. The other man looks down at Steve’s hand, raising a sardonic eyebrow and snorting softly with amusement.

“Steven will be taking care of Rebecca from now on.” Mrs Barnes informs the room with a tone of finality, and Steve gets the sudden feeling that he just signed his life away. 

“Right.” James replies, not bothering to introduce himself or accept Steve’s hand, and instead turning to Mrs Barnes with indignation, “Why can’t I take care of Becky?”

“Your sister has a name,” Mrs Barnes says sharply in lieu of a proper answer, “Use it.”

“I’m perfectly capable.” James retorts, fire in his eyes, and Steve senses this is an ages-old argument.

“Not now,” Mrs Barnes says dismissively, abruptly looking more like her actual age and less like the age she told Steve she was.

James looks ready to fight until the early hours of the morning, but it’s now nearing five o’clock and Steve needs to get home and feed Annie and maybe call Sam and talk about his poor life choices.

“Is that all you need from me, Mrs Barnes?”

She seems to shake herself free from the metaphorical weight of James on her shoulders, 

“Yes, that’s all, Steven.”

It’s only as she walks him to the door that Steve musters up the courage to ask the question that’s been burning holes in his oesophagus since such a dramatic entrance. 

“I don’t mean to pry, ma’am, but I was wondering – who was that?”

Mrs Barnes purses her lips in deep disapproval and sighs tiredly.

“That’s my step-son, James.”

Steve tries to hide his surprise, but he doesn’t think he’s as successful as he wants to be when Mrs Barnes continues.

“My husband’s son from his first marriage. He never did take to me – always wanted to go out and play rough with the children from his old neighbourhood instead of take up an instrument or learn a language like I tried to encourage. External, varied learning is good for the growing mind, Steven. You’d do well to remember that.”

She pins him with a look Steve can’t decipher. He clears his throat.

“Right. Yes, of course.”

Mrs Barnes appears appeased, but is soon overshadowed by worry.

“Rebecca adores him,” she admits, “Be careful. He can be a bad influence.”

The mahogany door closes softly behind him, and Steve leaves the Upper East Side feeling strangely heavy.

Childcare. Sure. He can do this.

“No, you can’t.” Sam tells him that night on the phone, “Okay, you actually can. But I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into. Little kids are deadly, man.”

“She’s nine,” Steve amends, flicking through channels absentmindedly, “and besides, I don’t know about that. Your niece seems pretty well-behaved.”

“Yeah,” Sam starts incredulously, like he can’t believe Steve still doesn’t know this, “because she freakin’ loves me, man.”

“Well, I’d hope so.” Steve returns cheekily, and he can very nearly hear Sam’s eye roll.

“No, you moron, I mean she _adores_ me. She loves her Uncle Sam because I’m cool and I let her have ice cream on school nights and I don’t discipline her for shit,” He explains, and Steve’s stomach sinks just a fraction, “This James kid, you gotta worry about _him_.”

“Why?” Steve asks evenly. 

“Whoa, man, I’m not implying anything–” Okay, maybe not so evenly, “Mrs B said that Rebecca adored James, right? Well, aside from your obvious penchant for tall, dark and handsome – me included – this little girl is going to be comparing you to her big brother the whole time. Which means, you gotta worry about his ass. More than you would’ve worried already. And by worry, I hope you know I mean admire.”

“Do you ever stop?” Steve counters with exasperation, even though he’s sure he already knows the answer.

“Nope,” comes the simple reply, and Steve sighs heavily.

“Look, it’ll be fine.”

“Famous last words, Steve.” Sam tells him, “Famous last words.”

 

*

 

It’s as fine as it could be, Steve supposes. 

“Rebecca!” He calls toward her retreating back, dark brown hair swaying from side to side and her backpack nearly falling off her shoulders. 

Steve can catch up to her, no problem. In fact, he wouldn’t even break a sweat or have to catch his breath. It’s more that the bone-deep tiredness that’s plagued him constantly since his return to the United States hinders his motivation to move past a brisk walk. Rebecca’s run seems to match his long, hasty strides and she’s still a good fifteen feet in front of him, but she’s not gaining any more ground so Steve lets her continue whilst watching carefully for cars and other dangerous external forces.

“Having trouble?”

Nearly jumping right out of his skin, Steve whips his head around and then down to see a woman with a raised eyebrow and fiery red hair. A quick assessment finds her small, but her core balance incredibly steady. Steve doesn’t doubt she could take him down in a heartbeat. The fact that she has a little girl holding her hand doesn’t makes this any less true.

It seems he’s forgotten to speak because the redhead’s partner in crime also raises her eyebrow, and now Steve is being judged by two deadly females.

“I– yeah, you could say that,” Out of the corner of his eye Steve sees Rebecca wait at the traffic lights. At least she has _some_ sense.

“The trick to Rebecca,” the redhead begins, giving Steve a secretive smile that makes him just a tad uncomfortable, “is to act like you don’t want her to like you,”

Steve gives her an incredulous look.

“Olivia!” Rebecca calls out excitedly, and the redhead is no longer holding a hand.

“Yours?” he asks as the two children giggle over something.

The redhead laughs, a light huff that sounds more amused than exasperated, although there’s a wry twist to her mouth.

“You’re sweet,” she returns, not necessarily answering his question, “I’m Natasha.”

“Steve,” he replies, giving Natasha a nod. They’re approaching the girls now, and Steve thinks of the homework he has to cajole Rebecca into doing, and the extravagant dinner he’s meant to cook. Not to mention the clothes he’s meant to wash and the piano he’s meant to make Rebecca practise (which, he frets, he failed to do yesterday). Maybe he shouldn’t think about it all at once.

There must be a particular look on his face because Natasha’s eyes crinkle and she gazes at him with something akin to fondness.

“You’ll get used to it. Liv, let’s go.”

Olivia’s bright smile stands out in contrast to her dark olive skin as she grasps Natasha’s hand, giving Steve and Rebecca an enthusiastic wave in goodbye.

“Can we get ice cream?” Rebecca asks him, and she’s smiling so prettily he’s nearly fooled. 

He thinks of Sam’s niece. 

“No,” he says, ignoring Rebecca’s pout and holding out his hand for her to hold. She stares at it like it’s the origin of cooties itself and chooses instead to march stubbornly across the road when the pedestrian lights turn green. Steve sighs inwardly, frustration bubbling in his chest and a sense of failure lingering at the recesses of his mind, following his charge home as they fester.

“Can you please–” Rebecca dumps her backpack in the middle of the hallway as they enter the apartment, and Steve pauses before picking up after her, the rest of his request abandoned upon her departure. It’s only his second day; he can probably be a little lenient right now until Rebecca warms up to him.

He puts her things away, bringing out her homework and pencils and placing them next to her tub of yoghurt on the kitchen island. She sends an annoyed glance his way and continues eating as Steve looks at the list provided to him by Mrs Barnes. He needs to unload the dishwasher and do some laundry, but Rebecca is probably going to need supervision on the homework front and Steve would rather spend time with her anyway, no matter how much she seems to dislike him. Company, however hostile, is better than no company at all. Steve knows that from experience.

He’s absently drying the dishes and finding their places in the scarily organised kitchen when Rebecca finally deigns him worthy of her conversation.

“Bucky could beat you.” She states as if he knows what she’s talking about.

“Excuse me?” Steve prods, turning his gaze to her with a bemused smile on his face. The salad bowl he wipes down goes into the cupboard below him, and Rebecca still eyeing him critically when he straightens up again.

“You’re pretty big, but Bucky could beat you in a fight.”

Steve decides it’s probably best to humour her despite having no idea who or what she’s talking about. 

“I’m sure he could.”

The dark-haired girl looks satisfied, and Steve is pleased to note that she’s at least attempting her homework, even if Steve spots a fair amount of incorrect math calculations.

By the time the dishwasher is finished, Steve realises he only has about half an hour to get Rebecca practising the piano before he needs to start on the five star recipe Mrs Barnes left for him. He didn’t imagine himself preparing fine dining meals when he thought of nannying a nine year old, but he’s learning to just take things as they come. He’s only glimpsed Mrs Barnes’s temper with James during his interview and he knows that’s probably just the tip of the iceberg. It would be best to avoid any sort of anger-inducing situation altogether, Steve thinks.

“Hey, Rebecca,” Steve starts hesitantly, and the girl in question raises her head, her hand halting its doodles of Spongebob on her homework and Steve blunders forward, aware that now is probably the best time out of any to be redirecting her focus. “I’d love to hear you play piano.” 

He feels like he’s being assessed by his Major back in Iraq with the way Rebecca’s sharp eyes rake over his face and her mouth twists into something unpleasant. Steve’s nose itches, but he maintains his pleasant smile.

Rebecca looks back down at her doodles, now giving Spongebob bunny ears.

“I only play with Bucky,” she says, and Steve can hear the scratch of her pencil as his mind whirs with worry. Nine year olds don’t have imaginary friends, do they? Steve is going to have to ask Peggy. Sam will laugh at him too much to be helpful.

“Can you play with me? Just this once?” Steve is vaguely aware that he might be digging himself into a hole with this, but he figures once she plays with him once then she’ll realise it’s not all that different than with ‘Bucky’, and will be willing to repeat the process in the future.

Oh hell, who does Steve think he’s fooling? He doesn’t know the first thing about trying to convince children to do things without bribery, which he promised himself he wouldn’t resort to on principle. But the peanut butter and jelly in the cupboard is looking awfully tempting despite Mrs Barnes’s warnings about artificial flavours and other things Steve wasn’t really paying attention to. Steve’s all about healthy eating, but you’ve got to have some indulgences to keep you on the right track. Going cold turkey never helped anyone, let alone children who don’t care in the slightest what they’re putting into their mouths.

“No, I–”

The front door’s lock rattles, and Rebecca brightens like nothing Steve has seen, not even when she was chatting with Olivia. She scrambles off her chair, some of her pencils flying off the island in her haste. 

“Bucky!” Rebecca screams, and Steve is strangely reminded of family members waiting at the arrival gate for their returning soldier, tearful and happy.

 _Well at least she doesn’t have an imaginary friend,_ Steve thinks with relief, turning the corner into the hallway and spotting James hugging Rebecca like he never wants to let go.

“Hey, Becky,” James grins into his step-sister’s hair, wide palms squeezing her shoulders before gently pushing her back to nudge her chin playfully. She smiles broadly, grabbing James’s hand before dragging him into the music room.

“–Learned this new piece in band today, it was _so_ cool. I love pirates, don’t you? My favourite’s–”

Their voices fade to become indecipherable and Steve is left there feeling a little lost as to the drastic change in attitude.

James must be some sort of miracle worker. Any ability Steve thought he possessed in making kids like him has vanished, and a general feeling of incompetence seeps into his brain as he starts on a load of washing. It’s about twenty or so minutes of spraying Rebecca’s clothes and placing them in the machine before Steve hears anything substantial and when he does it is–

It’s beautiful.

A nine year old can play _that?_ Steve’s feelings of worthlessness ratchet up a notch, and he abandons the lime green polka-dotted pyjama pants in his hands to venture into the music room.

He feels kind of silly and too big for the room when he realises James is playing and that he’s playing the theme from _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , of all things. But he feels a little less so when he observes the playful way in which James hits the keys, exaggerating the lower notes and barely grazing the higher ones, making his sister laugh and push him playfully before she returns to her simpler part, right hand steady and surprisingly dextrous.

Steve doesn’t realise he’s gaping until James looks over, his warm smile diminishing into a look of slight irritation even as he continues to play. He glances down at the top of Rebecca’s head and back up to Steve, and that’s when Steve shakes himself free of his wonder, not even thinking of asking them to stop like Mrs Barnes’s warning might have suggested he do.

“That’s pretty amazing,” he comments, walking over to the duo, Rebecca only now just noticing him as she looks up from the keys, “When did you start playing?” Steve asks Rebecca, making eye contact like all those sites told him to do. He’s actually genuinely interested, one part of this job he doesn’t have to fake.

“I started when I was six, but Bucky started earlier.” Rebecca states proudly, gazing up at her older brother with much admiration, who grins back at her.

 _Oh boy,_ Steve thinks, _He’s going to give me a definite run for my money._

“Awh, Becky, you flatter me. Two years on you is nothing, you’ll be a star in no time!” It’s said with an air of bitterness, but not even Steve catches it.

He leaves them to it, a small smile stretching his cheeks still as he attempts to make dinner. The French dish is complicated and something he’s almost positive Rebecca is going to refuse to eat even if he does make it correctly. The tinkling of the piano in the other room sounding around the siblings’ laughter makes Steve consider something else.

Technically he’s already broken one rule already today, and it’s only his second day on the job. So what’s one more?

 _I’m never getting hired again,_ he thinks as he cuts up the lean, surprisingly un-tofu sausages he found at the back of the fridge, hidden behind actual tofu and some yams. He spears them with pasta, and boils it all, chopping up some carrots and preparing to steam them so that he can claim it was at least partly healthy. 

Dinner is definitely ready a lot earlier than it would’ve been, but as he places the meal in front of Rebecca and sees her delighted expression, Steve thinks she doesn’t seem to mind so much.

“You’re welcome to some, James,” Steve offers to James’s back before he takes a bite of his pasta monstrosity that’s always a hit with kids, the man’s shoulders now covered in a leather jacket as he goes to put a scarf on. It’s not cold out, and Steve wonders whether scarves are the fashion nowadays. Steve tends to stick the classics, despite being twenty-five and supposedly part of the ‘younger’ generation. It doesn’t feel that way. Not since he saw more than half his company– well, Steve doesn’t like to think about it.

James’s shoulders bunch as if he’s ready to start a fight and Steve wonders what he did wrong as James turns around. His expression is unreadable, but the way in which he loosely clutches his backpack suggests he’s more surprised than anything that’s likely to leave Steve with a bruised jaw.

“I’m good,” he replies, shouldering his bag and leaning in to ruffle Rebecca’s hair and give her a kiss on the temple, “See you later, squirt.”

The door closes softly behind him, a stark contrast to his last exit in Steve’s presence. There’s a moment of silence as Steve ponders exactly how he’s meant to treat James when he’s been presented with two different sides of him.

“Told you he could beat you.” Rebecca states, chewing on her pasta happily.

Steve finishes his six o’clock dinner with a growing sense of loneliness, listening to all the ways James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is the best big brother any girl could ask for.

 

*

 

“You don’t have to be a natural at it, Steve,” Peggy lets him know a month later over coffee.

Instead of hating him, Rebecca just seems to tolerate his presence in her life. She’s neither happy nor unhappy to see him and in a way, Steve feels that’s worse.

“I guess I just feel like it would be better for her, if she did.” Steve explains, tracing the rim of his coffee cup and watching the way the porcelain glints in the spring sun that shines through the window. The window seat is his favourite, and Peggy’s always willing to acquiesce to his tendencies. 

“If she did… ?” Peggy trails off, encouraging him to finish. Her cup of tea shows distinct lipstick marks. Steve finds it charming that Peggy insists on using the more traditional brands of lipstick instead of the newer, ‘buy me and I’ll stay on for forty-eight hours’ ones. Peggy says it’s vintage, so it must mean something other than leaving red lip stains on all the cups and glasses she uses.

Steve likes it. Peggy leaves her mark on everything, even his cheek. It feels nice to be associated with her, even though she rolls her eyes at him when he tells her she should be spending more time with other people. The funny numb feeling in his face he gets when he thinks about it fades away when she does that.

“If she liked me.”

Peggy places down her teacup with a soft _chink_ , and gives Steve a smile he’s beginning to recognise as the one she uses when Steve is being particularly dense.

“She _already_ likes you, Steve. She just doesn’t want you to know she does. Call it maturity or something, but she’s embarrassed. Bucky, on the other hand? He’s her _brother_ – she’s meant to like him. It’s _cool_ to like someone like Bucky. Give it a couple of weeks.” 

Steve isn’t convinced, but Peggy gives his arm a gentle, teasing push and he sends her a smile in return, feeling a little better even if he’s slightly sceptical. 

“Enough of me, though. Tell me about Howard.” Steve deflects.

“I don’t want to talk about Howard,” Peggy looks furious, coiled hair bouncing as she shakes her head forcefully.

“I don’t know,” he wheedles, sipping his latte, “it seems like you do.”

“He’s impossible!” Peggy exclaims, hands flying. Steve fights down a grin, going for a concerned air instead. He’s not sure he’s fooling anyone given the way Peggy is looking at him – like he’s almost as much of a pain in the ass as Howard. “He keeps asking me out for fondue, whatever the hell _that’s_ meant to mean to him–” 

Steve almost chokes on his drink, and is pushed a little less gently by his friend as he bursts into laughter. He spends the next hour hearing about all the ways Howard Stark is breaking the law and the many and varied attempts of Peggy Carter to disabuse him of his law-breaking notions, the lawyer particularly adamant on Howard Stark’s increasing likelihood of impending arrest.

He’s still laughing to himself when he greets Annie at the door to his apartment, the golden retriever keen for a run given it’s almost dusk and she hasn’t had any exercise yet for the day. Steve has Sundays off, although he’s been told to stay on call and so faithfully keeps his cell on his person at all times.

Art joins them as they approach Whitman Park, barking enthusiastically at Annie. Sam isn’t far behind, and Steve greets him with a hug.

They play fetch with the dogs in companionable silence for nearly half an hour before Sam broaches the subject he always seems to broach when Steve doesn’t actively try and distract him with inane babble about Peggy and Howard, or the last book he read, or his latest workout routine.

“We’re having a guest at V.A. this week,” Sam begins, now throwing a tennis ball for Art and Annie, the latter of which manages to grab it first and spends the next five minutes evading the former. “You should come this time. I know, I know,” he adds at Steve’s frown, “It’s not really your scene. But Captain Benson has some interesting things to say. Thought the familiar rank might help you realise that we’ve all faced similar situations one way or another, regardless of responsibility.”

Steve stays silent, staring at the way Annie runs up to the other dogs, tail waving excitedly when they respond with the same amount of enthusiasm.

“Just something to think about.” Sam concludes once he realises Steve isn’t likely to say anything on the subject. It’s a familiar scene, one that Steve wishes he could change. But every time he tries to speak, tries to avoid making the light-hearted joke on the tip of his tongue, he fails spectacularly. Sam is a better friend than he deserves, a pleasant coincidence of sharing a jogging route that turned into one of the best friendships he’s ever had, even before his time as a Captain. Sam listens, he’s patient, and he _understands_ , most of all – he’s all Steve could’ve asked for in a friend upon his return.

It’s not enough. _Steve’s_ not enough. He can barely scrape the surface of his own experiences overseas before he’s backtracking and changing the subject to something that loosens up the tight feeling in his chest and clears his airways, his mind pleasantly empty instead of pounding against his skull in a rhythm that never fits.

“Hobbies, man,” Sam comments after a few silent moments, “You need them.” 

Steve chuckles to himself, shaking his head in exasperation before throwing a stick for Art, who gave up on chasing Annie after a while.

“Yeah, alright,” Steve answers, “I’ll get on that, right after I raise this nine year old girl.”

“It’s been just over a month, I’m pretty sure you get to have days off.”

“Which I spend, I might remind you, trying to be better at my job.” Sam rolls his eyes, and Steve thinks of Sam’s niece.

“You’re thinking about this way too much, Steve. There’s no way looking after a kid can be that hard. Besides,” Sam adds, bending down to pet Annie lovingly. Sometimes, Steve thinks Sam likes Steve’s dog better than he likes Steve, “Can’t you take up knitting _whilst_ you look after Rebecca?”

“I’ll try and fit it in between the piano practice, French lessons, and conversations about Bucky. Oh, and don’t forget the five star dinners I’m meant to be cooking.” Steve adds, feeling guilt creep in from the corners of his mind. 

“Which you haven’t been making,” Sam says, staring at Steve with an amused glint to his eyes, “And it’s Bucky now, huh? Not James?” 

Steve ignores the measured look his friend gives him, and gives Art a distracted pat. The dog’s tongue lolls out of his mouth, and Steve receives bouts of bad dog breath as Art pants into his face. “He’s more of a Bucky,”

“Uh huh, yeah,” Sam humours him, and Steve tries to dampen down the embarrassed flush that he can feel creeping up his neck.

Things with Bucky have been… well, they’ve been different. The first month, whilst challenging, has taught Steve a lot. Like the fact that Bucky is Rebecca’s whole world, and that Steve would do well to frame his bribes around Rebecca spending time with her stepbrother. So maybe Steve has been mentioning that to Bucky, that Rebecca might do a little better in school, might be a little less rambunctious if Bucky showed up more. During Steve’s work hours, that is. Thankfully Mrs Barnes tends to make herself scarce when Steve’s around.

He’d received a slightly cold look at the descriptor ‘rambunctious’, but Bucky had been generally agreeable.

“Alright. And please, call me Bucky. Only Winifred calls me James.” He’d rolled his eyes hard as he strode out the door, and Steve was left reeling. He’d expected it to take more than that, and the many reasons he’d brainstormed earlier that day swam around his head for the rest of the evening, even when Rebecca threw some of her pesto chicken at his face. Steve had wiped at his forehead absentmindedly, thoughts still on the way Bucky’s broad hands had gripped his backpack strap where it dangled by his side. 

So yeah, James is Bucky now. And Steve likes it more than he really should.

“Shut up.” Steve grumbles, and Sam grins broadly.

 

*

 

When Steve wakes up that night, heart pounding and palms nearly ripping his sheets in two, the sound of gunfire and panicked yelling echoing in his ears, he figures a hobby can’t hurt.

He’s not much for brainstorming ( _Except when it comes to Bucky,_ a voice suspiciously like Sam teases in his head), so he figures knitting is a hobby as good as any. It gives him something to do with his hands, and it requires enough concentration at first that it’s an adequate distraction.

Sometimes, though, Steve forgets that the world is different to his mind.

“You’re unreal,” Natasha says upon arrival a few days later, both of them waiting for the girls to be let out of school. Woollen string is woven in and out of Steve’s long fingers in no order whatsoever, and Steve is trying to untangle it all just so he can put the first attempt at a scarf away before Rebecca comes out with Olivia, the two of them no doubt going to be babbling a mile a minute.

“I assure you, I’m very much real.” Steve snarks back, shoving the monstrosity into his satchel. Natasha raises a very pointed eyebrow, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“I can see why he doesn’t want to sleep with you,” Natasha says casually, like Steve is meant to know at all what she means. 

“I’m sorry?” Steve chokes out, scratching at his stubble like it’ll rip off his face and hide him from this conversation. 

“Maybe you should ask James.” 

It takes a few seconds for the name to click, but before Steve can open his mouth and ask Natasha exactly what she’s trying to say, the school bell rings and Steve is bombarded with the day’s happenings by a very loud nine year old.

Steve suddenly remembers Bucky is coming over today, so that explains why Rebecca is so eager to get back home. His stomach clenches, but he pushes the feeling aside as the four of them walk along the street in the spring sun.

“We’re going to talk about this later,” Steve tells her, Olivia loudly talking about the craft project she has to do.

“And we’re going to talk about _this_ later,” Natasha tugs on the satchel, and Steve wonders why knitting is so unusual or interesting. Granted, maybe people don’t see a twenty-five year old man engage in such activities very often, but apart from the initial comment, Steve can’t guess what Natasha wants to know. 

When they arrive home, Rebecca now willing to put her own things away and get started on her homework pretty quickly, Steve busies himself with decoding the instructions left to him by Mrs Barnes, figuring out what he actually needs to do as opposed to what Mrs Barnes declares essential. 

He leaves piano and English help to Bucky, and disregards French altogether. Maybe he’ll encourage Rebecca to watch _Madeline_ after some math. That’s probably good enough.

After he’s put on a load of washing, laughing at the new chemistry themed pyjama pants of Rebecca’s, Steve figures he’ll cook a simple stir fry with rice for dinner instead of the duck Mrs Barnes urged him to make in her page-long instructions for the day.

Which has nothing at all to do with the fact that Bucky mentioned loving Thai food the week prior.

Whilst he may be a little emotionally unaware, Steve isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s not even that emotionally unaware. It’s more of a choice than a pre-existing condition. So Steve knows that he’s harbouring a little crush on Bucky. It’s not something he’s ever going to act on, because for one, it’s not like he knows the man very well. It’s superficial at best – liking the way Bucky’s hands tinker across the piano keys, the way his hair flops over his eyes and the permanent stubble that graces his jaw. Steve knows that it would be a bad idea, besides – Rebecca would never forgive him.

 _Mrs Barnes_ would never forgive him. He’d probably get fired.

No, he’d most _definitely_ get fired.

It’s better to stomp those feelings to the ground, pushing them away until the crinkles around Bucky’s blue eyes when he smiles no longer make Steve feel giddy.

“Hey,” Bucky greets Steve over Rebecca’s head, still hugging his little sister. They’re more closely related than Bucky is with his own father, it seems, so Steve recently abandoned any notion of labelling Bucky a stepbrother to Rebecca. It didn’t seem right.

“Hi,” Steve replies, giving a small smile. His cheeks hurt from the effort of restraining them. Grinning stupidly at a prospective love interest is probably the most obvious thing he could do, so Steve attempts to dial it back when Bucky is around.

 _It’s just a crush, just a crush,_ Steve chants to himself when Bucky brushes by, warm and welcoming. _Just. A. Crush._  

Rebecca’s seated at the kitchen island, getting out her things for English now that Bucky has arrived. The uncontrollable excitement from Steve’s second day when she saw her brother isn’t so uncontrollable anymore. Regular, expected visits have left her feeling happy continuously, instead of bouts of hyperactivity. Steve’s thankful, if only because Rebecca actually does her homework without question when she’s like this. 

“So,” Bucky remarks, leaning against the counter with an apple in his hand. Steve tries not to stare at the way his long fingers grasp at the fruit, dextrous and strong. He’s failing. “What’s on the agenda this evening?”

“Steve helped me with Math before, so I just gotta do English ‘cause I did Science at school. Did you know bullfrogs sometimes eat bats? How cool is that! But also gross. Who wants to eat a bat? They look creepy. You do _not_ want to put creepy things in your mouth.”

“Sure don’t. Bats aren’t creepy, though. They’re just misunderstood.” Bucky winks at Steve, who ducks his head and hides his smile as he tries to cut up the bacon for the macaroni and cheese. Stir-fry will be tomorrow's meal.

“Oh yeah, how?” Rebecca sasses back, raising a pair of sceptical eyebrows. Bucky gives her an amused smile in return, coming around to her side so as to look over her homework.

“Well, they can see in the dark, which I am extremely jealous of. Also, they can detect sound waves – that’s how they figure out where stuff is at night, by making noise and feeling where the sound waves bounce off of objects. Don’t you wish you could do that?”

“Wouldn’t it be better just to be able to _see_ at night? With eyes?” Steve intercedes, glancing over at the pair of them. It’s easy for him to be forgotten when they’re together, but he tries to include himself if only for his own sanity. Being ignored, even unconsciously, brings back memories from Steve’s not entirely pleasant high school years. 

Peggy would be glaring at him right now if she knew what he was thinking. 

“Now where’s the fun in that, Steve? You gotta let loose! I mean, you still call Becky here by her foul, old fogey name.” Bucky teases, nudging his sister with an errant elbow. 

“Yeah, you know you can call me Becky, right?” Rebecca – or, Becky – reiterates, dutifully filling in her crossword, “Rebecca is _so_ old. Makes me sound like my mom.” 

“And who wants _that?_ ” Bucky asks, scrunching up his face in mock disgust. His sister matches him before bursting into laughter, Bucky’s pleased chuckles joining her only a moment later. 

It’s ending up just like any other day with Becky finishing up her homework, the siblings sparing twenty or so minutes for the piano and then chatting mindlessly after, when something changes. Steve plates up dinner, serving Becky, who sits at the kitchen island – a rule Steve inadvertently broke on his first day and then didn’t see the harm in allowing it after – and then himself before pausing, like usual. He turns, plate of macaroni in one hand and a ladle in the other.

“You staying, J – uh, Bucky?”

Bucky, who had been bending down to retrieve his backpack, on the way out the door before even the _chance_ Mrs Barnes would catch him conversing with his sister, stops the motion. Unlike all other days – “Nah, I’m good.” – he actually seems to consider the offer.

“I don’t see why not.” He says with a shrug, unceremoniously dropping his pack and taking a seat at the island. Steve gives him what would have been Steve’s helping, and serves himself last.

When Becky moans over how good bacon is and that she’s so happy Steve introduced her to it last week, Steve can’t help the guilty flush that takes over his face. 

Bucky smirks at him, and addresses the reaction only after Steve has forgotten to be embarrassed about it.

“Not used to breaking rules?” He questions, drying the dishes as Steve washes. Becky’s in her room, reading. It’s a nice rhythm; one Steve is probably going to think about later to calm himself down when he wakes from memories of –

“On the contrary,” Steve replies, huffing with amusement, “It seems like that’s _all_ I ever do. Just… your mother scares me.”

Bucky barks out a laugh, nearly dropping the pan he’s holding.

“She’s not my mother,” Bucky says absently once he recovers, like he’s used to correcting people, “But I definitely know what you mean. Man, you are _too_ good.”

Steve turns his head, frowning.

“Sorry?”

“Oh come on, Steve,” Bucky scoffs, a smile still lingering on his face, “This guilty personal trainer act has got to stop. I can’t believe you felt bad about showing my sister the wonders of _bacon_. I mean, _seriously_.”

“It’s not on the list!” Steve exclaims, gesturing wildly with his soapy hands. He gets suds all over the front of his shirt, but it’s not like he wouldn’t end up soaked eventually, anyway. Steve’s not really used to washing up so much. Since he’s returned, an assortment of take-out has been a staple in his weekly menu. It _was_ his weekly menu.

“And neither is caring about my sister, being interested in her – and yet you still do that.” Bucky points out, staring him down. Steve fidgets nervously, incredibly determined to scrub off a stubborn stain on one of the pots he’s washing.

“Give yourself a break,” Bucky says, nudging Steve good-naturedly as he leans back against the counter, “Winifred doesn’t believe in fun. But Becky’s a kid, not a robot. You’re doing well,” He adds at what must be a worried frown on Steve’s face, “Trust me.”

They clean up in comfortable silence for five or so minutes before it’s broken once more.

“So, Natasha told me you have a dog.” 

Steve places the last wine glass on the drying rack before wiping his hands dry and turning to Bucky, who seemed to have abandoned any pretence of drying halfway into his job. 

“You know Natasha?” Steve asks, suddenly remembering with startling clarity the way the redhead had told him to ask Bucky something. He pales at the thought despite the part of him that’s begging to ask, clawing up his throat like flames. Itchy, embarrassing flames.

“Yeah, I know Natasha. Becky likes dogs, “ Bucky continues, seemingly oblivious to the panic that Steve feels is etched into his face, “You should introduce them.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees, stunned, “Sure.”

“Perfect.” Bucky replies, dumping the tea towel onto the counter, “Alright, I’m out, Hercules. See ya, Becky!” He shouts the last greeting, and receives an unintelligible shout in return. 

The click of the front door closing breaks Steve out of his shocked spell, and he hastily makes mental plans to take Becky with him and Annie to the park one day soon.

Becky’s brunette head pokes through the kitchen doorway, a cheeky smile on her face.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

Steve thinks of Sam’s niece, and laughs.

“Sure.”

It’s only as Steve wakes from another nightmare early the next morning that he remembers he never asked Bucky that question.

 _Probably for the best,_ Steve admonishes his hopeful heart, and turns to Netflix to cure his insomnia. His hands find his knitting needles as Phoebe Buffay yells at a smoke detector.

 

*

 

It’s two weeks later, dinners including Bucky three nights out of his six, that Steve finally manages to sneak Becky off to meet Annie. It’s a late Saturday morning and the park is packed, but Steve thinks Becky might actually like the hustle and bustle. She’s too used to being alone for a kid. At least, that’s what Steve thinks. Apart from Olivia, she doesn’t mention anyone else like a friend would. Irrationally, Steve worries.

_“And neither is caring about my sister, being interested in her – and yet you still do that.”_

Bucky’s words echo in his head, and Steve thinks maybe he’s not that irrational.

Mrs Barnes is at a social for some organisation Steve can’t pronounce, and Bucky texted Becky to say he wouldn’t be able to make it to see her today. They’re not going to be missed. 

Instead of bringing Annie with him to the Upper East Side, Steve decides to pick up his young charge, make a quick stop at his own apartment to collect their companion for the day, and then venture on to their final destination – the park.

“Mom says I shouldn’t ever come this way,” Becky states hesitantly, staring at the more decrepit buildings of Brooklyn warily.

Steve doesn’t really know what to say, so he just lets her know they’re nearly there.

Annie makes a scene, like she always does, upon his arrival. 

“Hey, girl,” Steve greets, accepting Annie’s face licks and noting her happily wagging tail with fondness, “I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

He beckons Becky forward, the nine year old looking slightly worried, like Annie might dislike her. 

 _No dog is ever going to dislike Becky,_ Steve thinks as Annie bounds over, sniffing Becky’s outstretched hand interestedly before deciding she needs loving licks as well. Becky’s laughing in no time, getting up and playing a small game of chase with Annie around Steve’s apartment whilst he fetches the lead. 

“You ready to go?” He asks. 

“Can I hold the lead?” Steve hesitates only a moment before handing it over, and the bright smile on Becky’s face assuages any doubt he might have had about giving her the reins in this scenario. Regardless, he makes sure Annie is calm enough before they leave not to bowl over the nine year old in her enthusiasm to get to the park. 

Steve picks up his sketchpad and pencil quickly before they depart, eyeing the sunshine outside and thinking of spring flowers and Annie with a great big stick in her mouth, ready to play fetch. 

He spends the short walk over pointing out this and that in the neighbourhood, doing his best to make sure Becky knows that Brooklyn isn’t some alien planet that she’s forbidden to go to for the rest of her life, but a place where people live and die and a place that people call home. 

“Okay, you can let her off the lead now – stay close!” Steve adds as Becky runs way squealing, a panting Annie bounding behind her. Steve suppresses a smile, sitting down near the biggest tree so that he can get some shade across his neck but enough light on his sketchbook.

He draws a few odds and ends at first; the spring flowers a few feet away, colourful and open; a mother wiping away the sullen tears of her toddler; an elderly woman playing chess by herself in the sun. He does this all the while keeping a discerning eye on Annie and Becky, who continue to play, Becky’s laughter carrying across the park to Steve’s little nook.

“Hey, Steve!” Becky calls out, giggling as Annie runs away to catch the stick thrown for her.

“Come and play with us!” 

Steve smiles, rotating the graphite pencil in his hand with quick movements, something that’s always warmed him up, strangely enough. Becky’s ribbons are coming loose, stubbornly holding onto her plait but no longer the bouncy bows they once were. An idea comes to Steve’s mind, and his pencil starts to arc gently across the page. 

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your fun!” Steve replies as Annie returns, running circles around Becky in her excitement. Becky plunks herself on the grass, spiritedly trying to wrangle the stick from Annie’s jaws.

As he draws the outline of Becky, arms around Annie and a ribbon in the dog’s mouth, his chest feels warm. It’s nice that Becky gets to have this, now. Steve doesn’t know what the old nanny was like, whether they were as lax with Becky’s schedule as Steve has been (in fact, maybe that’s why they were dishonourably discharged from the position), but he hopes she got moments like these back then as well. The open expression on her face makes him glad he’s breaking the rules. As someone who does so regularly, Steve is at least happy it’s for something. Despite being nicknamed General back in Iraq for his lack of rule abiding instead of his actual rank of Captain, Steve’s never broken rules with such ease before.

Steve knows, after being told over and over again by Peggy throughout high school and then being laughed at good-naturedly by his company, that he thinks too much.

“For a big guy, you sure got a big brain to match,” Morita used to say, cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a deck of cards at his fingertips in the evenings. The nights were the worst – Steve tended to subconsciously isolate himself, thinking over the day and what could be done the next to give his company good news, to make what they were doing worth it. Engrossing himself in paperwork and mission briefs and debriefs alike, Steve would hole up in his tent or in his office or behind his boulder and think until the night became the early morning and then he’d force himself to sleep, for the good of his company.

Steve hasn’t ever been good at making his mind quiet, at home or at war. But when he draws, it eases a little. Complicated thoughts become simple and anxieties that keep him up at night become small doubts he can brush off with the flick of the wrist across paper, graphite hard and yet yielding to his movements. There’s a rhythm to drawing that Steve has failed to find anywhere else.

Maybe this is what Sam meant when he said a hobby would be helpful.

As Becky’s hair becomes more realistic on paper and Annie’s golden coat glints in the sunlight before him, Steve wonders whether that sort of innocence, the kind that inspires a bond between an animal and a child, is contagious. Steve knows the laughter is, Becky’s ringing throughout the park and making the corners of Steve’s mouth upturn just slightly no matter how hard he tries to keep a straight face.

Steve wonders, as his head feels a little light with contentment, whether that sort of innocence is truly lost, or simply waiting to be found again.

Steve wonders whether he should go looking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you like it so far! let me know your thoughts in the comments, and check out my [tumblr](http://bisexualbucky.tumblr.com) for ample procrastination techniques.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been ages and I honestly have no excuse. :(

It’s a few days later and he almost can’t hear anything over his own raucous laughter, chest heaving and stomach hurting with the force of it all.

“That was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Bucky says through his own laughter, and Steve almost misses it under the sound of his own amusement still refusing to abate. He’s nearly crying by the time he stops, and belatedly realises that Becky’s in bed and probably trying to sleep. He feels guilty for a moment, but the warm smile on Bucky’s face gets rid of that in a heartbeat.

Those crinkles that form at the corner of Bucky’s eyes? Steve’s not immune, not at all. They make his heart stutter and his breath catch and if he can put them on Bucky’s face, then Steve won’t feel guilty about anything that did it.

“I bet Mrs B wasn’t so happy about that.” Steve comments, and even he can hear the mirth in his voice.

“Needless to say, I was in her bad books even _more_ permanently from then on out. Winifred didn’t like finding her seventeen year old stepson mid-coital _regardless_ of the fact it was the minister’s daughter in the room with me. The latter just added salt to the wound.”

Steve’s shaking his head in amusement, sneaking glances at Bucky out of the corner of his eyes when he thinks he won’t be seen. They’re on the fire escape sharing some sodas, Bucky regaling stories of his youth in an uncharacteristic show of trust. Steve relishes in it, Bucky’s tales wrapping around him like an emergency blanket, vital and life saving. Maybe that’s why he’s been feeling so hot. But no – there’s been a sudden heat wave, and the New York City spring feels more like an Arabian summer, something Steve is unfortunately all too familiar with.

“Helen was decent about it, though,” Bucky reminisces, the light of the near full moon illuminating his face. There’s a crosshatch of shadows, but he still looks unusually calm in the moonlight. “She even let me take her to prom after.” Bucky laughs and takes a swig of his soda, his throat moving luxuriously with the action.

Steve swallows his own soda down quickly, trying not to choke too much on the fizziness. His courage rears its ugly head, and the question pushes itself past his lips before he can think twice about it.

“So that happened a lot, then?” Steve shoves his soda bottle in his mouth straight after, gulping down his lemonade with a bit too much enthusiasm.

_Stupid. Why’d you have to go and ruin a good thing? You don’t get good things anymore!_

Steve’s head hurts with the last thought, regret easily filling him with a restlessness that’s not so easily shaken off. He doesn’t have the right to be sad or angry or even self-deprecating. Steve is alive, and he’s thankful. He’s always thankful.

Bucky’s eyeing him with an unidentifiable look on his face, and Steve gives a shaky smile to back the teasing mood.

Bucky smiles back, and there’s a moment of comfortable silence before he chuckles.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Steve prods, and nearly hits himself. He’s managed to sound playful, which at least provides the reason for his pushing.

“Well–“ He pauses, before shaking his head, “Nah, it’s nothing.” He takes a swig.

Steve raises his eyebrows in expectation, not letting Bucky get away from this conversation so easily. If Steve went ahead and ploughed through the questioning, Bucky is damn well going to answer.

Bucky nearly spits his drink out he’s smiling so hard.

“Alright, alright!” He acquiesces, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and nudging Steve in the shoulder good-naturedly, “Jeez, you’d think this was the Spanish Inquisition. Well, it was sort of a regular thing. Back then.”

“When you were seventeen?” Steve thinks about himself at seventeen, knobbly kneed and small and entirely too optimistic. His art school application had just been sent off and he was flying on a high of hope and impending adulthood. Peggy was with him, her applications to several Ivy League colleges mailed out. They’d spent the summer swimming in Peggy’s pool and going for nature hikes, Steve drawing the swell of Peggy’s lips and the mischief in her eyes as she raced him up hills.

“No,” Bucky answers, smiling wryly and consequently snapping Steve out of his flashbacks, “It’s been a regular thing up until pretty recently.”

“God, Buck, how many minister’s daughters _are_ there?” Steve exclaims, pursing his lips to keep in his smile. Bucky’s trying to tell him something, and Steve’s not going to stop him. But sometimes it’s just too easy to interject.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real hit,” Bucky says sarcastically, rolling his eyes with a smile. He pauses, and then continues on a little more seriously, tapping the neck of his soda bottle agitatedly, “It helps when it’s not just the daughters, though.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He can recognise when someone is reaching out, even if it’s to him.

“That’s – that’s not weird, right?” Bucky asks suddenly, snapping his head to Steve. Steve, who had been staring at his hands, lifts his head up to Bucky’s slightly panicked gaze. “I mean, it happens?”

“Yeah, Bucky,” Steve reassures, shifting a little more to his right so as to look his friend fully in the eye – because that’s what they are now, Steve realises: _friends_ , “It happens. More than you’d think, given – given everything.”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says quietly, “Good.”

“It’s – I mean, I am. As well.” It comes out jagged and rough, like he’s unused to saying it. Even though just last week Steve had attended Peggy’s Equality dinner, bisexual representation on his LGBTQA and ally table. Steve knows. He’s known since he was eighteen and the sight of Peggy – lovely Peggy – in a swimsuit elicited the same reaction as the shirtless lifeguard at the beach near her holiday house. Steve being Steve decided he wouldn’t be sure until he’d done the run of the mill gay porn test and yes, he had indeed been of the bisexual persuasion.

Bucky’s been staring at him, waiting for him to continue.

“So only until recently, huh? What changed?” Steve diverts, knowing that the look on Bucky’s face means he’s relieved that he’s not alone in this, even if he doesn’t say it. Steve supposes it’s highly likely that growing up in the Barnes household left no room for individuality. Steve thanks whatever or whoever is out there for the existence of Peggy Carter in his life.

“It’s, ah –” He gives an awkward grin, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, “I might have been sleeping with the nannies. Maybe.”

Steve’s not sure what he expected, but he can’t help the selfish thought of _why did he have to stop?_ – before he’s stomping down on it in a fit of quiet embarrassment and putting up an amused front.

“Maybe?”

“Okay, yeah, it’s a definite thing. But I just wanted to spend time with Becky! I figured that as long as Winifred kept hiring them and then firing them I’d be able to sneak in between the cracks. Then _you_ came along –!” He gestures to all of Steve like he’s a personal offence, taking another mouthful of soda along with it. “Well, diversity’s not so crash hot around here. Figured it wouldn’t be worth the hassle. Besides,” Bucky continues before Steve can feel hurt that Bucky didn’t deem him worth the effort – _Stop it, Steve_ – “I’m happy it’s worked out this way. We’re friends, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve echoes, patting Bucky on the shoulder, “Friends.”

“Nat’s been giving me absolute shit for it, though,” Bucky informs him after suggesting they head inside, best to make use of the air-conditioning his father is paying for, after all. “Says if I couldn’t resist her, why can I resist you? Like _that’s_ what it’s about,” He scoffs, but Steve is still a little stuck on the first part of his statement.

“So Natasha was Becky’s nanny?” Steve asks, and he feels okay about it all, in retrospect. Natasha is obviously friends with Bucky. And Steve likes her. She helped him, even if she took photos of him knitting and said she was posting them on Facebook.

“You didn’t know?” Bucky asks as he lies back on the sofa, soda bottles left in the kitchen. The lights are dim and the sofa looks entirely too comfortable. Steve sinks right down, and he knows he’ll probably fall asleep on it later. “Had a good run of it, too. I was away at the time, so I met her two months into her contract. By that time she was sick of Winifred and looking for a way out. It was a mutually beneficial transaction.”

“Sounds like it was enjoyable,” Steve can’t help but interject mockingly, and Bucky’s answering grin says it all – he’s not offended. If anything, he looks like he’s enjoying a private joke.

“It felt like making love to a distant cousin or something,” Steve must make a face, because Bucky bursts out laughing, “Don’t worry, Nat and I are as far from related as two people could probably be. But despite having known her for only a few days before it happened, we just didn’t work. After we both got caught – because believe it or not, Nat planned for us to be going at it just as Winifred came home – we agreed never again and we’ve been friends ever since. I’m telling you, Steve, there’s something strangely liberating about being friends with someone who’s seen your O-face just as intimately as you’ve seen theirs.”

Steve can’t really imagine it, and the thought makes his cheeks ache with the force of keeping his laughter in. Although, he considers, he _did_ imagine it at some point.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he muses, and receives another laugh in return.

Talk is a lot more banal after that, if you could call talking to Bucky banal, and Steve manages to avoid sleeping on the sofa after Bucky leaves. He stays awake until Winifred returns home at around midnight, Mr Barnes suspiciously absent, and makes the near hour commute home to a dark apartment. His bed, though, is entirely welcoming, and Steve is out like a light like he hasn’t been since basic training.

 

*

 

As strange as it seems to Steve, Bucky is around more after that. Steve wasn’t really sure he could be – Bucky’s hours, whilst regular, seemed to revolve around other commitments which Steve presumed were work-related. And hanging out with Natasha.

“James told me you guys had a moment last night.” She starts off on Tuesday morning.

“That happened not even twelve hours ago.” Steve remarks, eyes still closed against the morning sun. He and Becky had been waiting for Natasha and Olivia – the four of them walk to school together. Steve likes the moments of stillness in the panic of early morning. Becky’s learnt to appreciate it as well, and so they’re often early and almost always silent.

“I have my ways. Blackmail and torture, mostly.”

Thoughts fly through Steve’s head, stained red and screaming as he flinches instinctively.

“Sounds effective.” Becky takes his hand, and the four of them make the walk to school. The small squeeze he gets makes him smile.

“Alright,” Steve begins as they halt in front of the school, kids bustling about and parents calling worriedly after them, “We’ll pick you up at three.”

“Okay.” Becky smiles at him, squeezing his hand once more before her and Olivia make their way through the school doors. Natasha straightens up from where she’d been crouching to say goodbye to Olivia, and both of them wait until all the kids are inside and the bell rings before breaking the comfortable silence.

“So are you still knitting?” Natasha asks, and Steve can’t detect any sort of mockery in her tone no matter how hard he tries. Then again, Steve supposes, he’d only hear it if Natasha wanted him to hear it.

“Yeah,” he replies, “Finally finished my third scarf the other day. A little lopsided and not nearly long enough, but it’s better than my first.” Steve thinks of the lonely little thing in his bedside drawer, and tries not to feel sorry for it.

“Good.” There’s a slight pause, and Steve turns to see a warm smile on Natasha’s face. He guesses he wouldn’t be able to tell it from her usual polite smile if not for the slight crinkles in the corner of her eyes making an appearance. “When we pick up the girls this afternoon, I want you to bring your knitting stuff and we’ll have a knit-off.”

“A knit-off?” Steve asks, frowning.

“Don’t question it, Steve.”

He doesn’t, and at five minutes to three he’s outside the school, knitting gear (God, he sounds like he’s preparing for a mission) sitting in his bag as he waits for Becky to finish. Natasha arrives and greets him with a nod, that warm smile taking over her face once more when she sees his bag. He doesn’t usually bring it, these days. He’s used to the routine, as terrifying and comforting as it is.

“Play date?” Natasha suggests, “Let’s go to Olivia’s. I don’t want to see Winifred again.” Steve raises his eyebrows in question, and she rolls her eyes, “The last time I saw her was in Whole Foods, and she sneered at my choice of cheddar before walking away. I honestly can’t be bothered to even pretend to be nice.”

The girls make their exit from the school as Steve agrees, and they spend the walk to Olivia’s apartment listening to tales of Fluffy, the class snake who shed just recently, and how French is boring but Madeline is their favourite show.

“Dump your stuff and we’ll play a game.” Natasha says offhandedly, and the girls screech with glee, their school things strewn all over the entranceway of the apartment faster than Steve can process what’s happening. He follows Natasha to the living room, placing his bag on the biggest armchair in the hopes his shoulders will fit when he decides to sit down (he forgets, sometimes, how things have changed).

Natasha pushes the two chairs opposite Steve’s closer, and so four chairs face each other, two on each side of an imaginary line. The girls come back into the living room from the kitchen, one of those peanut butter and jelly all-in-one jars in Olivia’s possession, spoons in both of their hands.

“I call this one Tag Team Knitting,” Natasha announces after the four of them are seated, the girls having had a few spoonfuls of their snack. “The aim of the game is to make a scarf the quickest. One person can only knit for two minutes before we change over.”

Steve is a little shocked but a lot excited, and the kids are also, it seems. They’re almost vibrating in their chairs.

“Olivia and I have played this before so we’re going to switch it up. Becky, you’re with me. Olivia, you’re with Steve.”

He receives a blinding smile at that and the girls quickly switch seats so they’re opposite their partners.

“Steve and Becky will go first, and then Olivia and I. Remember,” she adds, phone now ready as a timer, the needles in Steve’s hands feeling a little slippery with the pressure of this whole thing. A _knit-off_ – “Two minutes, as much as you can, then we hand it over to our team member. One… two… three!”

Steve’s fingers ache in his haste, and he’s not sure he’s ever done something this fast with his fine motor skills. He botches a few stitches but there’s not time to go back, like he usually does. Instead, he ploughs on, hoping that Olivia is better at this than he is so he can watch her face light up like that again if they win. He suddenly realises she’s been cheering him on.

“Switch!”

Steve pushes his work at Olivia, who takes the needles with a grace Steve envies. He starts encouraging her, just a little at first.

By the end of the game, Steve’s cheeks hurt with his smile and his throat is a little scratchy given his shouts and woops of encouragement. They lost, but only by a few missed stitches and one less line of scarf. But still, Steve feels ecstatic – and a little touched. Instead of being upset, or blaming Steve for all of their missed stitches (which, he knows, _were_ actually his fault), Olivia carefully shows him how to redo the stitch in half the amount of time it was taking him on his own. He smiles, not knowing what to do with his hands apart from squeeze Olivia’s in thanks.

“You can always fix your mistakes.” She says, and Steve wonders who’s feeding her such wise lines. Then he realises they’re talking about knitting, not life in general, and feels a little silly.

The girls beg off to watch some TV in the rec room down the hall after, and Natasha continues to knit after they’re gone. Steve, unsure of what else to do, continues also.

“You may just beat my grandmother yet.” Natasha tells him, eyes soft. Steve chuckles, seeing the absentminded mess he’s made of his wool. Fire engine red this time, just like Bucky’s favourite colour. He’ll never receive it, of course, but Steve feels good about it regardless.

“You know, I may _pretend_ to know everything, Steve, but I definitely know a military man when I see one.”

“What gave it away?”

Natasha sends him a look, and he silently agrees it was a bit of a stupid question. If Natasha hadn’t guessed it by now, Steve’s sure Mrs Barnes’s ability to be discreet about such things to her friends isn’t exactly stellar.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” He states after a moment, a wry smile twisting his lips, “At your service.”

They continue on in silence until Natasha breaks it, gently and with a tone to her voice that Steve isn’t sure he likes, if only because it makes him feel like he’s sixteen again: skinny, but with the world at his feet.

“How many tours?”

“Two.” He hesitates, “It wasn’t that long. I shouldn’t be here, I should be back–“ He puts his needles down on the coffee table in a huff, staring at the mess of wool and plastic with frustration.

“War goes on, even when we don’t.” Steve steadfastly looks at his hands, seeing all the scars but also not sure he’s willing to see _all_ of them, “You did ample time, Cap.”

Steve sends her a look as his heart shrivels up.

“Please don’t,” He pleads, getting up from the armchair to pace in front of the table.

“Alright,” Natasha puts down her knitting needles and focuses fully on him, “I’m listening.”

He runs his hands through his hair, memories stretching out his head painfully, making them bigger and more frightening than his enormous body will ever be.

“I don’t like to talk about it.” He pushes out, chest tight and his eyes stinging.

“I know.” Natasha says simply, kind eyes on his face. “But believe me, Steve – there’s nothing you can say that will shock me.” Her eyes bore into him, and her voice gets a little harder. “ _Nothing_.”

So he tells her. It’s somehow easier than it was with Peggy, who was so caring and so supportive and listened and held his hand and said at the end of it all, “I don’t love you any less, Steve Rogers.” To which he’d bawled his eyes out.

It’s easier than it was with Sam, months later, who was trained for it, who knew almost exactly where Steve was coming from. Sam had sat there in silence, listened without a sound, and had then told Steve his own story in return.

“Come to the V.A.,” he’d suggested after he’d confessed to his own horrors, “We’re here to help you live with it, Steve.”

He tells her and it’s easy. It’s easy to say why he joined the Army – trying to make it work as an artist wasn’t happening, and he was bigger than ever, the elusive growth spurt finally catching up to him. It’s easy to say that the first tour was the best he’s ever felt, helping people and being a part of _something_. It’s harder to tell her that his second tour ruined him. He lost people; _he_ , Steve Rogers, personally lost people. He took an operation into his own hands, and the lives of half of his men were lost, as well as civilians. Steve should’ve known.

“ – I _should’ve_ known there was a reason it was an intel mission and not an invasion. I wasn’t thinking, I just saw the opening and I took it, no regard for anyone else –”

“Steve, it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve sits down heavily, hand over his eyes as he leans back in the armchair.

“Yeah,”

He doesn’t continue, and so Natasha doesn’t realise he’s disagreeing with her.

“The things we do in combat don’t shape who we are. I’ve never been in the military,” She adds at Steve’s confused frown, “I’ve never been in a war zone. That’d be too cliché given this moment we’re having right now,” Steve huffs with what he hopes sounds like laughter, “But I do know that whilst it’s our choices that define who we are, it’s also _why_ we make them – not just their outcome.”

His chest tightens painfully for a moment before releasing gradually, like a loosening belt around his torso. He breathes.

“You didn’t go into that building intending for people to die. You went in there hoping to save those civilians.” She places her hand on his arm, bringing his own down from his face to look him straight in the eye. “That’s what’s important.”

Steve’s reminded of the sincerity of her gaze in front of the TV the next night, Friends reruns playing softly in the background. He got home an hour ago. Annie’s head is on his lap and he pats it absently, the gentle ups and downs of her chest soothing him.

He thinks about choices. He thinks about being grateful and feeling guilty. He thinks of Dugan, ginger moustache the joke of the company, nude cards always stuck to his helmet. He thinks of Gabe and Morita, the former’s incredible Arabic skills and calm smile, and the latter’s penchant for smokes and insistence about carrying around a picture of his wife everywhere.

Steve thinks about these things, and makes a call.

“Hey, Bucky?” He asks into the receiver. The clock blinks _21:47_ at him, “How’d you like to join Becky and me tomorrow?”

 

*

 

“So this is what you do,” Bucky states the next day. It’s not a question; almost as if Bucky doesn’t need it validated. Steve does, anyway.

“This is what I do.”

The bench they’re sitting on isn’t particularly comfortable, but at least it stops Steve from immersing himself too much in his drawings. The graphite pencil glides across the paper beneath him as Steve looks up at his subjects, the young boy ripping grass angrily between his fingers; his father sits with him, doing the same.

They’re quiet for a little more, Annie and Becky rolling around on the grass ten feet away.

“How do you do that?” Bucky asks, and Steve can feel him peering at his sketchbook.

“Do what?” Steve replies distractedly.

“Make it look so _angry_.” Bucky sounds amazed, and so Steve looks up, “You’re giving it emotion.”

Steve looks back down at his rough sketch, the small hands of the boy are twisted, grass between them. His father’s hands are all harsh lines and tension. Steve likes to draw hands the most. He likes the way they twist and turn and curl around things. He often jokes with Peggy about hands being the windows to the soul, not eyes. To which she rolls her eyes and makes crass comments about hands being the windows to other things.

“I don’t know.”

Bucky hums in thought, and when he catches Steve’s eye he gives a brilliant grin. Steve feels stunned.

He clears his throat and scratches his jaw, hoping to divert Bucky’s grin elsewhere. It’s entirely too confronting. Steve thinks there should be warnings about that kind of thing. Maybe Bucky needs to come with one, a great big sticker on his shirt that proclaims _CAUTION: SMILE MAY BLIND SOME_.

“All this time–“ _Two months_ , Steve’s brain helpfully supplies, “– and I don’t even know what _you_ do.”

“Officially, I bartend.” Bucky tells him, chewing on his lip as he gazes at Becky playing in the grass.

“Unofficially?”

Bucky cringes, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Err,” He hesitates, “It’s kind of dumb,”

Steve puts his pencil and paper aside, shifting a little closer to Bucky on the bench. Bucky, whose knees sit wide apart and whose hands look strong and dextrous, turns a little to accommodate him.

“When I was off ‘gallivanting around the bad neighbourhood’,” Steve has been around Mrs Barnes enough to know those are her words Bucky is quoting, “I wasn’t actually running around anywhere. There was this kid. A bit of a bully, actually. Anyway,” Bucky shakes his head as if trying to brush away an errant thought, “I used to always get into trouble for fighting with him. Physical, verbal, the whole lot. So one day, when I was about nine, I had this great idea.” He stops, turning his head to look at Steve, “You gotta realise, Steve, I thought I was so smart. I thought this was the best idea ever.”

Steve suppresses a smile imagining a nine year old Bucky Barnes thinking the world of his ideas.

“I thought that the reason I was getting caught calling this kid out on his crap was because everyone around me knew exactly what I was saying. So I thought hey, why not make it so that’s not the case?”

“I’m not following,” Steve replies, frowning.

Bucky punches him on the left arm teasingly.

“I thought I’d learn another language, you punk.”

“I love how that’s your first thought.” Steve comments, grinning broadly. Little Bucky Barnes, defiant as hell as he picks up _How To Speak French_ in the public library, flashes through Steve’s mind.

“I told you it was stupid,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I thought I’d make it even cooler and go with something obscure. So here I am, twenty-three years old, and fluent in Russian.”

Steve barks out a surprised laugh, and Bucky chuckles along with him.

“I bet those insults just came flying out.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muses, an amused smile gracing his face, “I thought I was so badass.”

“So how does this relate to your unofficial employment? Are you going around insulting bullies in Russian in your spare time?” Steve asks, relishing in the surprised look on Bucky’s face.

“Wow, you are an _ass_ , you know that?”

Steve just grins, quirking an eyebrow. Bucky looks out across the park again, his smile still lingering as he mutters something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Steve prods, leaning closer in the hope he’ll hear it when it’s repeated.

“Teacher,” Bucky repeats, loudly this time, clearing his throat awkwardly when they receive a look from a passer by. “I wanna be a teacher. Of languages.”

Steve gives that a moment to sink in.

“Just how many languages _can_ you speak?”

“About five, excluding a few that I wouldn’t consider myself fluent in but can still speak better than your average person.”

Steve stares at him, a peculiar feeling settling in his stomach.

“And you’ve made _me_ attempt to teach Becky French this whole time?”

Bucky laughs, throwing his head back. Steve follows the movement with his eyes, carefully _not_ noting how Bucky’s strong jaw looks in the sunlight.

“Nah, there’s something about French I just don’t get. I’m hopeless.” He shakes his head in amusement once more, something that’s now becoming familiar to Steve, “Sometimes I think that’s why Winifred chose it. Anyway,” he adds after a pause, standing up. He takes a few steps forward before twisting back to look at Steve.

“You should sell those.” He points to the sketchbook beside Steve on the bench, who looks to it.

By the time he’s turned back, Bucky’s gone, chasing Annie around the park with vigour. Becky squeals in the background as the dog chases her.

Steve is reminded of the Roadrunner for some reason, and chuckles to himself.

 _Yeah,_ Steve thinks as he starts on a new piece. Bucky grabs Becky under her arms and throws her up onto his shoulders. He grips her ankles and walks around, stopping at the trees for Becky to explore.

 _Maybe,_ Steve thinks.

His pencil flies across paper, and when he gets home later that day he stashes the drawings in his linen closet, too ashamed at the fondness in the lines of Bucky’s face and the softness in Becky’s captured laughter that glare back at him.

 

*

 

It’s a week or so later, Bucky having accompanied Steve and Becky on multiple outside-of-the-Upper-East-Side trips: trips to the Met; the Sea, Air and Space Museum (Becky’s favourite); and even the Empire State. In fact, it’s at the last destination that Bucky strays off the script that Steve attempts to follow to a tee with every occasion.

“My shift finishes at eleven,” Bucky begins, leaning against the railings of the top most level, peering through the wires to the city below. It’s after lunch on a Saturday, the three of them having had pizza just before. “You should come by.”

“You know, I’d be more than happy to if I actually knew where you worked.”

Bucky laughs quietly to himself, and Steve ignores the glow of contentment he feels settling in his gut.

The name of a bar that Steve has never heard of before rolls off of Bucky’s tongue. The fact that Steve doesn’t recognise the name doesn’t actually say very much, Steve having stayed away from any sort of substance after he came back. He was never a huge drinker before he joined the army, anyway – the drinks affected him too much in high school, and not enough after his miraculous growth spurt.

“I’ll come by,” Steve tells him, and doesn’t notice the pleased smile that graces Bucky’s face after. Becky has caught his attention, talking about light pollution and the stars and all matters of science, really.

When he gets home that afternoon around five, the nerves creep in. Becky has the evening with her parents, Mrs Barnes giving Steve the night off in an unusual show of generosity. But instead of feeling like he’s earned the much-needed break, Steve just feels restless. As much as he thought he might appreciate more than his Sundays off, the extra time makes him get lost in his own thoughts. Thoughts of Bucky, and the war, and all the things that worry him. Annie’s soft hair and warm huffs against his neck as she cuddles up against him only comfort Steve so much.

In a wave of silent panic, Steve texts Peggy at half past nine, his dinner rotating in the microwave.

_I would owe you a million dates to get away from Howard Stark if you agree to come out with me tonight._

He’s halfway through his tuna pasta when he receives a reply.

_I would’ve come anyway but now you owe me an explanation. I’ll be at yours in 30._

Steve’s brushes his teeth and leaves his hair as it is so that Bucky doesn’t notice too much of a change by the time Peggy arrives. He opens the door to her in a red dress, form hugging but elegant in a way that Steve feels is uniquely Peggy. Her red lipstick remains, and the coils of her hair don’t look too different from when he normally sees her, if a little longer than usual.

He’s sure he’s gaping, Peggy’s beauty always catching him off-guard, when Peggy speaks.

“It’s not nice to leave a girl waiting, Steve.”

“Oh,” he says, “Oh! Right, of course, come in, Pegs,” and opens the door wider to let her through.

Peggy helps herself to a beer from Steve’s fridge as he walks back into his bedroom, trying to find an outfit that says he tried to look nice but wasn’t exactly trying too hard.

“This isn’t a date, is it? A date that you’ve asked me to third wheel on?” Peggy asks as she strides in, plonking herself onto his bed with her beer.

Steve catches her eye in the mirror before him.

“I promise, this isn’t like Raven – who still scares me, by the way.”

Peggy snorts, sipping her beer.

“Bucky just asked me to come by his work tonight.” Steve tries to explain casually as he opens a drawer of his dresser.

“Oh, really?” Peggy asks him, and Steve detects the teasing tone she uses even before she plans to use it, “And you’re sure it’s not a date?”

Steve shakes his head in amusement, “Oh, I’m sure.”

“So how’s this nannying thing going? Becky’s not giving you too much trouble?” Peggy pauses thoughtfully, “Or should I say, _Bucky_ isn’t giving you too much trouble, is he?”

“You’re hilarious.” Steve deadpans, but Peggy’s smug expression doesn’t dissipate. “But it’s– good.” Steve says jerkily, a little stunned at the revelation now that Peggy’s made him think about it. He sits down lightly next to her on his bed, snatching her beer away to take a small sip.

“She likes you?” Steve expects a little ribbing, Peggy reminding him of his previous worries, but he doesn’t get anything like that from her. Instead, it seems she’s genuinely interested in his answer.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, thinking about hand squeezes and bright smiles, “Yeah, I think so. She doesn’t throw food at me anymore, at least.” Steve jokes, grabbing a blue Henley to throw on.

“Good choice,” Peggy pipes up, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

“You ready or not?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow at his friend. Peggy raises an eyebrow back and sculls the rest of her beer.

“Of course I’m ready. I’m not the one who had to go through five outfits like I was trying to impress a certain someone.” She stands, brushing off imaginary lint from her red dress. Steve’s eyes are distracted by the sight.

“ _I_ already know you’re in love with me, so there’s no need to impress.” She snarks, and Steve’s eyes snap up to her smirking face. He rolls his eyes once more, grabbing his wallet and keys.

He asks about Howard Stark on the way to the bar, Peggy suddenly turning irate on his arm.

“Honestly, Steve, it’s a wonder he can even take care of himself. Have you _seen_ his lab? No, of course you haven’t–”

He’s fighting back a grin as she continues on, ranting about how Stark doesn’t seem to mind having his twelve year old in the lab with him, blowing up all manner of things.

They depart the subway station nearest to Bucky’s work, walking up the steps to street level. Steve nods along, humming every now and then when Peggy makes a particularly emphatic point. These rants are some of the most amusing he’s ever witnessed. Steve wonders when Stark is going to ask out Peggy properly, and rolls his eyes to himself. If anything, Peggy will be the one to ask Stark out. He knows she can be intimidating – believe him, _he knows_. 

“– a wonder he hasn’t been accosted by Child Services yet, with the way he lets Tony play with all those robotics! I’ve got half a mind to charge him myself, but that would be a major conflict of interest. He _is_ paying me, after all– oh, is this it?”

They’ve pulled up to the front of a shabby looking place, nondescript. There’s music to be heard from outside, though, and Steve swallows thickly before nodding.

“Looks like. Ladies first,” He sweeps his hand forth, and Steve thinks he sees the bouncer roll his eyes in unison with Peggy. 

They descend stairs into an underground bar. Its walls are wooden and old, filled with unique tokens from across the country. There’s a fake deer skull attached to one wall, showing off a pink feather boa and a 1920’s era cigarette holder. The tables are barrels, and the seats are wooden stools. Candles light the seating areas, and the music is loud but not overbearing. 

Steve would describe the vibe as alternative but homey. It’s like the owner just picked up whatever looked slightly off-centre and decided he wanted to show it off for the world to see.

Bucky, who Steve now sees is taking orders at the bar, fits right in.

“This way,” Steve murmurs in Peggy’s ear, taking her hand and pulling her toward Bucky.

“Hey, Steve.” The crinkles at his eyes are out to play once more and Steve returns the warm smile, ignoring the tripping thump of his heart in his chest.

“Buck,” He greets, pulling Peggy forward with his hand, “This is Peggy.” 

Bucky’s eyes lose a little of their warmth as he looks to the left, eyes flitting down between them for a second before coming back up to Peggy’s smiling face. Steve figures it’s because it’s hard _not_ to stare at Peggy, who commands a room with a single look.

“What do you want to drink?” Steve exclaims into Peggy’s ear. The music is louder near the bar, and Steve wonders how Bucky can take orders at all.

She rattles off a drink Steve is honestly shocked he forgot was her favourite before he rolls his eyes.

“Why did I even ask?” Peggy grins at him, winking, and Steve turns to recite her order to Bucky, adding on a beer for himself. Bucky looks more concentrated now, and the warmth in Steve wanes a little. Bucky’s just busy, is all, Steve’s sure.

Steve glances at his watch, sees Bucky has five minutes to go. 

“Come find us when you’re done!” Steve shouts across the bar once they have their drinks, and Bucky nods distractedly, already taking another order. They find a seat toward the far wall, sitting side by side in the cramped space. Steve’s bulk is not built for your everyday table. 

“I see what you mean,” Peggy says in his ear, “He’s a dish.”

“ _Peggy_ ,” Steve groans, shaking his head fondly.

“What? Can’t a girl give an opinion? If I had that in my life, I’d be making the most of it.”

“It’s not that simple,” Steve replies, taking a swig of his beer and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Sure it is. Just ask him out.” 

Steve groans again, shaking his head and shooting Peggy a pleading look. 

“I can’t believe you even invited me. This was clearly a date.” She concludes, taking a sip of her drink.

“What?” Steve asks, frown on his face, “No, it isn’t. He’s just being friendly.”

“I call it how I see it, Steve.”

“Call what how you see it?” A new voice interrupts, and Steve sees Bucky pull out a stool at their table, smiling politely. 

“Oh, nothing,” Peggy waves him off, and Steve thanks his lucky stars that she’s chosen not to meddle… _too much_.

“Sorry about earlier,” Bucky apologises, and Steve notices he’s got his own drink in his hand, the condensation dripping onto his fingers. Steve tries not to stare. “It’s busier than I thought it’d be.”

“It’s fine,” Steve assures, smiling. There’s a moment of silence before Peggy clears her throat, and asks Bucky about his job. 

The conversation is easy from there, smiles and laughs frequent and friendly. It’s with a weird sense of foreboding that Steve notices his interactions with Bucky are lacking their usual intimacy. In fact, Bucky barely looks him in the eye, choosing instead to play with the napkin in his hands or swirl his drink distractedly. The physical affection usually so liberal is nowhere to be seen. Steve mourns it.

Suddenly, Bucky gulps down the rest of his drink. Absently, Steve realises he’s gone through three. Peggy had long ago finished her first drink, and is instead on soda. Steve remains on his first beer, now weirdly enjoying the lukewarm fizz. It’s keeping him alert, if anything. 

“You guys want to dance?” Bucky looks between them, eyes a little unfocused.

“Nah,” Steve says as Peggy shakes her head, brown curls bouncing, “You go ahead.” 

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs, and Steve watches him closely as he weaves in and out of people to get to the dance floor. 

“He’s nice,” Peggy comments. Steve sees her eyeing him out of the corner of his eye, and refuses to meet her gaze. Something about it looks accusatory, like Steve is being particularly dumb and Peggy’s not afraid to tell him.

“Yeah,” Steve frowns, following Bucky’s arms, glistening with either sweat or spilt alcohol, which have now wrapped around ample hips, the girl’s shirt riding up.

“I’m just gonna– bathroom.” He’s out of his seat fast, missing the worried look on Peggy’s face as he strides quickly to the bathroom.

He absentmindedly takes a piss, his mind reeling. This isn’t a date, not like Peggy said. Maybe Bucky wanted Steve to be his wingman? But no, Steve thinks as he frowns, Bucky’s doing well enough right now without his help.

He zips up, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror as he washes his hands. He’s not sure what he thought tonight was. All he knows is that it’s not going how he imagined it would.

Shaking his head clear of thought, he dries his hands and heads out, knocking into someone as he reaches the main area. He looks up, apologising, but quickly sees a scene behind the small girl that stuns him. The girl in front of him is mumbling, patting at his chest with a napkin clumsily.

Steve can’t look away, but he knows he should. The girl from before with the wide hips but a smaller waist, modest chest heaving in the light from above, has her arms around Bucky’s neck. Their legs are entwined, like they tried to get closer to one another but had no room. They’re kissing. The fingers Steve admired what seems like eons ago are pushing gently into the girl’s neck – well, she’s really a woman – resting against her sharp jaw like they’ve been doing that forever. It creates a shadow that highlights the movement of her lips, and Steve’s stomach squirms uncomfortably.

“He’s drunk, Steve,” Peggy is in front of him, sweat forming at her hairline but she’s still so beautiful. It’s hot in the bar, but all Steve feels is icy cold. “Come on, let’s dance,”

“No.”

“But, Steve–” 

“No,” Steve repeats firmly, eyes locking with Peggy’s, “I can’t do this, Pegs. Not again.” 

Her face falls. 

“Let’s just go,” Steve says quietly, ducking his head miserably, the fight swept out of him like a rush of wind. 

Peggy nods.

“Alright,” she says softly, taking Steve’s elbow and turning them around. She looks over her shoulder at the scene behind them, but Steve steadfastly refuses to mimic her. “I’m pretty sure there are a few episodes of _Law and Order_ on your DVR that have our names on them, anyway.” Peggy states upon turning back around, and they head out the door.

Later, as they cuddle on the couch, Peggy brings up something she hasn’t for a long time now.

“You know I never wanted to hurt you, right?” Her head is on his chest, and she’s picking gently at a loose thread in his grey t-shirt. They’re both in sweatpants, the night transformed into one of easy relaxation. Detective Benson comforts a victim in the background as Peggy’s beautiful brown hair tickles under his chin. Steve runs an absent hand through it. He can’t see her face, but he can imagine the pained frown that has swept across it. 

“Of course, Pegs. Don’t worry about me,” He smiles sardonically, “I’m fine. That was years ago.”

They’re in comfortable silence again, and Steve marvels at the softness of Peggy’s hair at her temple, longing for a simpler time of red lipstick on his cheek and sorrowful apologies.

“Can I stay over?” Peggy asks, staring at the screen as Olivia Benson cries.

“Sure,” Steve says, “Linens are in the closet in the hall.”                

 

*

 

To say Steve feels embarrassed is putting things lightly.

He’s not stupid, not really. He just forgets, sometimes, that people don’t always say what they mean. He’s been out of the army too long, he muses. In the army, everything is code.

So Bucky doesn’t want to date him. That’s fine. Steve gets the hint. It just makes it a bit difficult to be Bucky’s friend when Steve feels like he’s being ripped in two every time they talk.

“So what happened on Friday?” Bucky says a fair few days later. Becky is playing piano, a new piece that Bucky is absently correcting her fingering on, “I came back and you guys were gone. The bar isn’t _that_ bad, is it?”

Steve chuckles humourlessly, trying to paste a smile onto his face as he folds Becky’s laundry. Deviating from routine established weeks ago would’ve been suspicious, so Steve was resigned to spend the afternoon watching Bucky coach his younger sister. It was a supreme type of torture.

“We were just tired.” Steve explains, resolutely staring at navy blue socks depicting the solar system.

“Oh, okay,” Bucky replies, moving Becky’s hands gently up one octave, “Well, thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” Steve says, smiling. He wants to scream.

 

*

 

Things return to what one might say was normal, after that. The closeness Steve had felt with Bucky isn’t there anymore, and in a way Steve feels like he might’ve imagined the whole thing. Bucky clearly hadn’t felt anything but friendship, and Steve had gone and put all these expectations on him without notice.

“My husband is finally taking some time off,” Mrs Barnes says to him one night two weeks later. She’s pushing his pay, tucked neatly into a blank envelope, into his hands, “So the two of us are going away for the weekend. Richard has a holiday house in the Hamptons. You’ll be fine here with Rebecca. I must insist you stay the night over the weekend, though.”

Steve’s nodding absently before he realises.

“Wait, you’re not taking Becky?”

Mrs Barnes purses her thin lips at his use of Becky’s nickname, but chooses to ignore it.

“No. Rebecca has far too much energy, and Richard and I haven’t spent nearly enough time together.”

Steve clenches his jaw.

_You haven’t spent enough time with your daughter._

“We leave on Friday afternoon. Please have your things here in the morning. You can use the Nanny Quarters for the weekend.”

And with that final note, Mrs Barnes rushes him out of the affluent apartment with a promise to see him the next morning. The envelope feels heavy and stifling in his hands, and Steve sighs as the door closes behind him.

Friday comes more quickly than he anticipated. He stuffs some underwear and changes of clothes into a duffle, throws in his toothbrush and toothpaste, and heads out the door. Becky’s chatting happily to him as they walk to school, and Steve realises with a sinking feeling that she’s not talking about seeing him that weekend. If she knew, she’d surely ask for Bucky to come over.

Mrs Barnes has left this up to him. 

“Becks,” Steve begins, crouching down to her level just before they enter the school grounds. She grins at him, eyes crinkling just like her brother. He tries to keep his tone upbeat, excited, “You’re actually going to be seeing me tomorrow. Your mom told me she and your dad are gonna be taking a few days off.”

He sees the grin slowly slip off of Becky’s face. Steve’s face hurts with the force of his insincere smile, and his throat feels clogged for a reason he can’t explain.

“But we were going to go to Coney Island this weekend,” Becky says, tone confused, her eyes shining, “Dad said he was gonna take me on the Cyclone!” 

Her eyes dart wildly between his, and Steve gives a sad smile.

“We can still do that, Becks. We’ll go on Saturday, you and me–” 

“IT’S NOT THE SAME!” Becky screeches and, like a dam has broken, torrents of tears fall freely down her face.

“Becky?” Both of them turn to see Olivia, dark eyes filled with worry. When she sees her friend’s face, she runs the rest of the way over. “What’s wrong?”

“Dad– I– we– they’re going–” Becky can’t seem to get her words out through the tears, her small hands coming up to wipe at them childishly.

 _She’s only a kid,_ Steve thinks sadly, _she’s not even ten yet. She doesn’t deserve this._

Olivia’s talking to her quietly, leading her into the school. Neither of them look behind at Steve, still crouched and still stumped. He feels someone come to stand next to him.

“You never told me you were dating someone.” Natasha says, and Steve can almost feel the eyebrow she has raised without looking at her.

“I’m not.” He snaps, standing. Becky and Olivia have reached the entrance to the building, and disappear through the doors.

“Hmm,” Natasha hums, seemingly unsurprised, “Interesting.”

Steve leaves, dreading that afternoon.

 _Decided to leave a little early, Steven,_ Winifred’s note reads in neat, flowery script when he arrives after dropping off Annie with Sam, _Instructions are in their usual place._

The instructions are long and extensive, and Steve feels a headache blooming behind his eyes at one glance to them.

With nothing else to do, and no distractions in the shape of older brothers, Steve gets to work.

It’s probably the first time he’s done everything on Winifred’s list. Cleaned all the right places, and properly; sent off all the orders for new furniture, or artwork, or cook books on time; marinated gourmet meat from an hours-long recipe… Steve almost feels proud of himself, until he remembers he’s just delaying the inevitable.

There’s only one person who can rectify the situation, and Steve hates that he has to call him.

“Bucky?” Steve asks after he receives a tinny and hesitant hello, “There’s something you should know…”

 

 

*

 

“I’m sorry to spring this on you,” Steve says upon meeting Bucky outside the school just before three o’clock. The usually laidback vibe his friend gives off is absent, one stiff and uncomfortable left in its wake. Steve feels the same. “It was all so last minute, and Becky–”

“I get it,” Bucky interrupts, a stormy look on his face. He looks like he’s going to stand in silence until it suddenly bursts out of him.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Winifred pulls this shit all the time. And Dad?” Bucky laughs, empty and cold, “Well, Dick and can be a real _dick_ , if you know what I mean.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

“It’s fine, Steve,” Bucky says softly, finally looking him in the eye for the first time in what must be weeks, “We’ll deal with it.”

“Bucky?” The incredulous voice comes from in front of them, but Steve hadn’t noticed her approach. “Bucky!”

“Hey, squirt!” Bucky greets excitedly, wrapping up his sister in a hug and lifting her off the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Becky prods after she’s safely back on the pavement and they start their walk home. Her hand is held tightly in her brother’s, and her face is clear of the misery of that morning.

“Well, a little birdy told me your mom wasn’t gonna be home this weekend,” Bucky glances quickly at Steve before looking back down at his sister, “And that means Bucky time.”

Becky smiles, white and blinding, and Steve almost jumps at the creep of a small hand settling comfortably into his. He holds back a grin, looking ahead down the street.

The afternoon carries on like any other, and Steve feels a new warmth between him and Bucky. They’ve been treading unsteadily around each other for weeks, and for Steve to finally feel like he’s on familiar ground is a great relief. His shoulders gradually relax. He didn’t even realise they were tense.

“Richard–“ Bucky turns around, backpack slung over his shoulder. Becky’s in bed, the washing up is done, and it’s time for him to leave. He looks hopeful as he stares at Steve, and the veteran’s stomach squirms for an entirely pleasant reason. “Richard said he’d take Becky to Coney Island this weekend,” Steve explains, and Bucky seems to understand.

“What time tomorrow?” He asks, hand on the doorknob.

“Nine-thirty?” Steve suggests hesitantly.

“I’ll be there.” Bucky promises, and says goodnight.

Steve, finally feeling steady on his feet, breathes a sigh of relief. 

The next day dawns bright and sunny, and Steve is pleased that Becky is going to have the day at Coney Island she’s probably always wanted. Bucky is going to be an infinitely better partner than her dad, he assumes.

“Got your lunch?” Steve checks, tugging Becky’s hair away from her face so her hat fits right.

“Yep!”

“Sunscreen?”

“Yep!”

“Water?”

“ _Yes_ , Stevie! Can we go now, please?”

“We’re just waiting on one thing…”

The door clicks open, and Steve couldn’t have timed it any better himself.

He sees Becky’s face light up, and is almost pushed aside given the speed with which she runs toward her brother.

The hour and a half subway ride doesn’t seem to dampen Becky’s spirits, who makes a running commentary on all there is to see at Coney Island and when she’s exhausted her knowledge, observations about the other patrons.

The look on Becky’s face when she first glimpses the Cyclone is a reward in and of itself, her eyes taking in the structure with awe and excitement.

Bucky chuckles, nudging Becky’s jaw closed with a tap of a finger.

“You’re gonna let flies in, kid. Besides, we gotta warm up a bit first.” Bucky gives Steve a mischievous look, “Can’t have you throwing up first thing.”

They go on a few of the gentler rides first, Becky’s laughter contagious enough that Steve soon finds his belly hurting from his own. Becky is squished between them on the Tango, and Steve laughs at the look of horror on her face as she realises they’re all about to move across the seat to squash Bucky, who cringes exaggeratedly but ends up laughing along with them. 

“Lunch, lunch, lunch!” Becky’s chanting now that it’s one-thirty. Steve is pretty hungry himself, and Bucky seems tempted by the idea. One look at the prized coaster, though, and he’s changed his mind.

“Alright, it’s time.” Becky looks confused for a second before she perks up, ripping off her small backpack and shoving it into Steve’s hands.

“Go ahead, it’s all good!” Steve calls out after them as Becky drags her brother away, the latter looking back apologetically at Steve, who shakes his head with amusement.

The Cyclone’s not really his style, anyway. He’s sure he’d throw up, the ride a bit too much for someone who can barely handle riding a bike again without dire memories cropping up to sway him off course. This day has been too good to sully it in such a way.

Instead he seats himself at a table, managing to nab it just as a family leaves, the parents looking tired and the kids looking grumpy. He’s got a perfect view of the line, and he watches brother and sister converse with much enthusiasm. The stirrings of something dangerous start in Steve’s chest, seeping into every pore of him.

“Again!” Becky demands once they’ve returned. Steve holds back a chuckle at the look of despair that crosses Bucky’s pale face. 

“Maybe later,” he evades, before muttering out of the corner of his mouth to Steve, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

The food is, of course, expensive. But Steve, with little guilt, presents the credit card Mrs Barnes gave him for all matters regarding Becky. If she’d implied it was for emergencies, well… Steve considers the hungry growling of Becky’s abdomen an emergency.

The grease of the burger Steve scoffs down is oddly satisfying, despite the realisation that it’s what he’s chosen to spend his cheat day on. A little disheartening, but worth it when he sees Becky tuck into her lunch with relish. Bucky steals some of her fries, and she protests through a mouthful of chicken nuggets.

It’s an hour later when Steve receives the text, all of them having just got out of the bumper cars. Steve had been the clear winner, shepherding Bucky into a corner and hitting him repeatedly until he’d rested his forehead on his wheel, defeated.

 _Art school doesn’t mean jack shit,_ it says, the white text looking particularly stark against the blue in this instance, _I just want you to be happy._

She’s attached a picture of a website, and Steve glimpses a familiar drawing, last seen in his linen closet.

_Left some flyers at your place. It’s two Sundays from now. All artists included are required to attend. DON’T be late._

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” He says a minute later when Peggy picks up. He hears her tinkling laugh on the other line. He wants to be frustrated, but he’s not quite there yet.

“Of course I did,” she replies. Steve watches Bucky unstick Becky’s cotton candy hands from one another as he laughs at her disgruntled face, “What are friends for?”

And somehow, suddenly, he doesn’t mind.

 

*

 

“You’re good with her, you know.” Steve hears from his left. The subway is quiet, most people heading in the other direction in the early Saturday evening, no doubt on their way to big nights out. Steve is tired, and so is Bucky. Becky’s head rests comfortably in the nook between Steve’s neck and shoulder, her eyes shut as she sleeps soundly.

“Thanks,” Steve says quietly, chuffed. It’s been a while, he thinks, but he got there in the end. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Bucky continues, shaking his head as Steve opens his mouth to placate him, “No, really. Thanks for inviting me. It’s been… well, it hasn’t always been easy, getting the time with her.”

The unsaid lies between them. Steve thinks of vegan mothers and absent fathers.

“You’ve helped a lot,” If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d say Bucky’s tone was almost tender. 

But Steve did know better.

“You’re good with her, too, you know.” Steve returns, smiling at the slightly bashful look on Bucky’s face. “You need to give yourself more credit. Credit where credit is due.”

When they get back to the apartment, Bucky uses his own keys to open the door. Steve’s hands are busy carrying an absolutely spent nine year old. 

“I’m just going to put her to bed.” Steve whispers, and Bucky nods, heading to the kitchen.

After he places her on her bed, Steve puts Becky’s pyjama pants on, gently removing her skirt after. He leaves her top where it is, slips off her shoes, and takes out her ponytail. Putting a glass of water beside her bed, he turns off the light and gently shuts the door. It’s not even eight o’clock, but Steve feels ready for bed himself. He probably should head there in a few hours, because Becky will no doubt be up earlier than usual given the early bed time.

He steps into the living room to see Bucky lounged across the couch, bottle of beer held loosely in his right hand and settled on his stomach. Bucky nods toward the coffee table, where another beer sits without a coaster. Steve makes a mental note to wipe the table once he’s done. 

“I don’t think I’ve had such a jam-packed day since Winifred thought she could have me learn French.” Bucky’s head lolls to the side, and he looks at Steve with a tired smile. “And let me tell you, that was a _long_ time ago.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, taking a swig of his beer as he leans elbows on knees.

It’s silent between them, like it has been for the past few weeks. But it’s comfortable, which is a welcome change. Steve is too tired to feel awkward, too tired to ignore the tingles he feels where he and Bucky’s thighs touch through two layers of jeans.

“What are you doing here, Steve?” Bucky asks quietly, and Steve turns his head to look back at him. “You’re bigger than this.”

Steve leans back, twisting and facing Bucky fully.

“It’s… it’s a stepping stone.” Steve mutters carefully.

Bucky snorts, a sound that reverberates in the calm room. A strange sort of tension arises, one that Steve can’t give a name to. Bucky sits up a little straighter, his knee bumping into Steve’s own clumsily. He doesn’t move away. His right hand comes up, plucking at the material of Steve’s shirt. Steve gives Bucky’s hand a quick look before returning to his eyes, which seem a lot more intense than they were seconds ago. 

“Your art is good enough to sell, Steve,” murmurs Bucky, moving closer. Steve can almost count his eyelashes.

_One, two, three, four…_

“Why don’t you do that?”

_Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…_

“It’s complicated.”

 _Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…_  

“So uncomplicate it.” Bucky’s mouth is so close, Steve feels like he’d go cross-eyed trying to get a look.

What were they talking about? Steve can feel Bucky exhale against his lips, and he wets them in anticipation. Without realising, his tongue brushes Bucky’s bottom lip and then suddenly they’re kissing. 

Steve brings up his right hand, slowly resting it on Bucky’s jaw. Their kiss is still closed mouths, moving languidly against each other like they’re trying to figure out how to work in tandem. Steve rubs his thumb across Bucky’s cheek, a caress, when–

_I don't want no scrub, a scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me_

Steve breaks away hesitantly, frowning as he reaches for his back pocket. When he looks back up, phone in hand, Bucky is at a safe distance and staring at the beer in his grip like it holds the answers to everything.

 _Winifred Barnes._  

“I’ve got to take this,” Steve says, apologetic, silently cursing Sam for changing his ringtone again.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, his face blank as he stands from the couch, “I should probably leave anyway.”

Steve doesn’t want Bucky to go, but he doesn’t see an alternative. His phone rings persistently, and he accepts the call as he sees Bucky exit the room, no doubt looking for his bag. 

“Hello?” Steve answers, getting up and following Bucky into the hall.

He steps out just in time to see Bucky sling his bag over his head and, with a forlorn look at Steve, close the front door behind him.

Steve’s jaw clenches unconsciously, Winifred’s voice strained in his ear.

“I’m coming home early, Steven. Expect me there sometime tonight.”

Even with Becky asleep in the next room and Mrs Barnes in his ear… Steve feels inexplicably alone.

 

*

 

“Look, man, it’s fine,” Sam assures him on Sunday afternoon. Mrs Barnes had returned, furious, on Saturday night and promptly given Steve the whole next day off. Steve doesn’t want to know what’s caused her anger, and instead wisely chooses to ask no questions and leave her well alone. He hopes Becky knows the same. “First kisses are always weird.”

“This felt different,” Steve persists, digging into the nachos Sam prepared for lunch. Sam’s couch has probably seen better days from all the food they’ve dropped on it. “It didn’t feel finished. I mean,” Steve adds at Sam’s raised eyebrows, “He got out of there so fast we didn’t have a chance to talk about what we both want.” 

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sam responded, taking a sip of his soda before ploughing on. Art sat at their feet, desperate for some scraps. “This Bucky dude seems flaky as hell. Sorry!” Sam added at Steve’s glare, “Just calling it like I see it.”

“Have you ever met Peggy?” Steve grumbles, fed up. 

“Yeah, Steve,” Sam says slowly, like his friend is particularly obtuse, “Loads of times.”

“I think he might be scared,” Steve reasons once all the nachos are gone. Art looks very disappointed. “I mean, he mentioned his family not being very supportive. I mean, he’s out, I think… but maybe he’s not used to acting on it yet.”

“That’s some mighty fine detective work, Rogers,” Sam intones. “But I say cut him. What about Peggy?”

Steve sends him a look filled with loathing.

“Peggy and Steve forever.” Sam says, deadpan, before Steve throws a pillow at him and he bursts into laughter.

But it sticks in Steve’s mind, and he realises something.

He’s always loved Peggy. It’s sort of a natural state of being for him. He was Steve, defiant and skinny and not a friend to his name, and then Peggy came along and he was part of something. He was part of Steve and Peggy, best friends. Steve and Peggy, not dating but may as well be.

Unrequited love reared its ugly head but he lived through it, and they were best friends still. Not even unwelcome feelings, now years-old, could come between them.

Bucky doesn’t know any of this, though. Bucky probably heard the way Steve spoke about Peggy, familiar and happy, and thought – wow, this guy has a great friend.

Then he saw her, vintage lipstick and red dress like a smack in the face. Steve realises – Bucky had looked down, he and Peggy had still been holding hands at that point so he surely thought… 

The stand-offish behaviour. Close, but not too close. Kissing a girl, distracting himself... 

Steve realises, feeling like he’s flying, that Bucky thought he was dating Peggy. 

_But I’m not._

So he rectifies the situation.

This turns out to be harder than Steve could have possibly imagined. It seems, through guilt, that Bucky manages to stay away from Becky, even, to avoid Steve. Becky, who’s not happy with him.

“This is your fault, you know.” She grumbles as she does her homework. Steve’s baking a steak pie in the oven, tending to the gravy, “Last _I_ saw him, he was happy.”

Steve chooses not to comment. 

The flyers on his table at home stare up at him, and Steve resolves to fix it.

“Tomorrow night,” Natasha says on Tuesday morning once the girls have trotted into school. He’d been turning to leave when she spoke up. “Go to Hot Fuss downtown. It’s his rebound club.” Steve stares at her blankly. “We’ll be there.” She adds, and leaves.

He doesn’t tell Peggy, too afraid she’ll berate him for bringing her on what, he realises now, was a date. He doesn’t tell Sam, doesn’t want to hear him make kissing noises through the phone like a pre-teen.

Instead, he dons a pair of darker jeans and a black v-neck sweater. He picks up a flyer, stuffs it into his pocket, and makes his way to the club.

The music is thumping so loud he can’t hear himself think, and the lights are full of purples and red. He squeezes his way through, looking around himself for a head of red hair, straight and sleek. He sees it, over by a table, and makes a beeline for it.

“Hey,” he greets them, slightly out of breath. Natasha has a satisfied expression on her face, like she’s just been announced the winner of a very large bet. Bucky sits next to her, a look of complete shock on his face.

“Can I talk to you?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky helplessly. No one says anything, and so he continues. “Outside, maybe? Please.” He pleads, stepping forward.

At his movement, Bucky nods jerkily, and leads him outside into what looks like the alley at the back of the club. The fresh air is nice and cool against Steve’s face, and it clears his head enough for him to remember he doesn’t exactly know what he’s going to say.

“I’m not dating Peggy,” He blurts out inelegantly, and Steve sees _something_ flash across Bucky’s face. “I never was.”

“Oh,” Bucky replies tonelessly, “Is that all?”

And he turns as if to go back inside.

“No!” Steve exclaims, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm. He lets go abruptly at the cold look Bucky gives him.

“Look, I’m – I’m not very good at this.”

“Let me help you, then.” Bucky begins, and Steve sees him take a deep breath, as if readying himself for a difficult task. Steve’s heart begins to sink.

“This is not happening,” He declares, gesturing between the two of them with a hand, “ _We_ are not happening.” 

Steve is frozen, his eyes looking between Bucky’s like he might be able to read his mind, _change_ his mind.

“I’m no good for you, Steve.” Bucky decides, nostrils flaring, “You fucking save people for a living and look at me!” He laughs heartlessly, holding his arms wide as if begging Steve to send a punch his way. Steve can’t move, he can’t _speak_. 

The panic is clawing up Steve’s throat, scraping like sandpaper and leaving him unable to get a breath in edgewise.

“I read about it online,” Bucky continues, his face showcasing a fierce battle between determined and tender, “all those people you saved, that’s not–”

“Bucky–”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off, his eyes narrowed, just when Steve’s voice had returned to him in a moment of heartbroken anger, “Let me say this.”

Steve says nothing, the thoughts swirling in his head making him dizzy. Or is that the fact he can’t breathe?

“That’s– that’s not me, Steve. I don’t save people.” His voice cracks a little, deepening a few notes in an attempt to hide the emotion, “I _can’t_ save people, do you get that? I destroy everything I touch.” 

Does Bucky expect him to respond? Steve is hearing distant raucous laughter, the grumbling engine of a tank, the scattered pleas of civilians as his eyes struggle to see through the debris–

“You don’t–“ Steve spits out, fury swiftly blossoming through his limbs like a flower reaching toward the sun, “You don’t understand. The things I’ve done would leave you screaming at night. They leave _me_ screaming at night. There is no ‘good’, Bucky.” Steve adds at the deathly silence, his own thoughts ricocheting off of his skull like wayward bullets in a gunfight. Bucky’s face is stricken, stunned at Steve’s admission and probably planning how he can leave this battle of words unscathed, unsullied by Steve’s– Steve’s– just _Steve_.

“We all have our demons.” Bucky says quietly, taking a step closer. His earlier cold demeanour is lost, and Steve doesn’t want to think about the look on his face. 

“ _No!_ These are more than demons,” Steve seethes, fists clenched by his sides as he struggles to articulate without outright saying it. If Bucky knew… “These are ghosts, and they haunt me, Bucky. I’m never alone. I’m no good, no good at all–” 

“How can you say that?” Bucky implores, and Steve almost misses the confused look on his face, but that’s what does it. Steve feels something inside him snap like an old rubber band begging for death and before he realises what it is he’s doing he’s shouting, screaming like he hasn’t since– 

“BECAUSE I’VE KILLED PEOPLE! I’VE STOOD BY AND WATCHED AS THE THINGS I’VE DONE HAVE BETRAYED MY FRIENDS! I LED THEM ALL INTO SOMETHING NOT EVEN HALF OF THEM CAME OUT OF! I KILLED PEOPLE WHO DIDN’T EVEN KNOW ME, WHO THOUGHT I WAS THERE TO HELP THEM! I WATCHED AS THEIR LAST BREATHS FLED THEM AND I WAS LEFT BEHIND!”

His chest is heaving, and he realises he’s spent this entire relationship with Bucky leading up to this point. He’d thought Bucky had understood – there was an understanding between them that there are parts of a person you don’t touch, that you keep secret. Steve thought Bucky knew that, that he knew not to disturb this dark, bottomless pit inside of Steve so big it was a surprise and a damn shame it hadn’t consumed him already.

“It was a simple recon mission,” Steve starts at a normal volume, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn he feels building behind them, “I was Captaining my squad. We’d been doing well, coming back with no injuries and working our way into enemy territory. They were holding civilians hostage in their own town, cutting off trade supplies and stopping all communication with Americans – well, you can imagine what it was like,” He opens his eyes again, blinking away the blurry lights in his vision and trying not to focus on anything in particular, “’Simple recon,’ Phillips said, ‘Don’t go doing anything stupid, Rogers, ya hear?’” His imitation of his old lieutenant is poor, so he chuckles under his breath, but Bucky wouldn’t know the difference, “I wish I’d listened,” Steve’s voice breaks harshly, and he swallows before continuing, “I really do. I’d – I’d heard that the rebel force was splitting their defence, trying to send people to the village over east to take that, too. I thought we could beat them. We were a specialised force, quick at attack and known for minimal civilian casualties.” He gulps, forcing out the next few sentences, “I led the squad in, against orders. It was– it was a trap.” Steve ignores the glimpse he gets of Bucky’s face as it falls, “They’d sent out the extra forces because our intel was wrong. There were more of them than we initially thought, and even with some leaving, we were outnumbered. And they knew it.”

The noise from the street seems to fade out, and Steve feels like his ears are ringing in sympathy with his memory.

“It was a blood bath,” Steve whispers, and he feels wetness on his face. The burning behind his eyes is no more, but his whole body feels numb so that isn’t much of a sign. “One of the rebels set off a grenade, blew half the main building out. They’d dressed themselves as the hostages, for the most part, so we didn’t know which was which – some of the guys… some of them lost their lives thinking they were helping innocent people– I– I can’t–“

He takes in a few deep breaths, regaining composure but still feeling absolutely gutted. The shouts that haunted his sleepless nights were more visceral here, in the alley outside the club. Maybe it was the pounding music that now seemed to beat in tandem with the headache that was forming in his temples, or maybe it was the fact that everyone in that building was so wholly _alive_ , when almost everyone in Steve’s memory was so wholly _not_. Either way, his chest felt hollowed out, and Steve was surprised he didn’t collapse under the impossibility of it.

“You think _you’re_ the person who destroys everything they touch, Buck?” Steve says softly, looking into Bucky’s shocked face, “You’re wrong. You’re looking right at him.”

There’s a moment of silence. He feels inexplicably tired. His blood, running hot and fast not even a minute ago, now feels sluggish and lukewarm. His muscles ache like they’ve been abused after a particularly hard workout, and his brain throbs in time to the music like a very ironic muscle spasm. His body is exhausted.

Months of untreated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder will do that to you, he supposes.

“Here,” Steve begins fiercely, stepping forward and pulling out the flyer he had been so eager to give Bucky. He pushes it into his friend’s chest. Well, former friend now, “I came to invite you to an art show. Got a couple of pieces in it.”

As he extracts his hand, he feels the graze of Bucky’s, which comes up to catch the crumpled flyer. This last point of contact feels like goodbye, and so Steve makes things plainly clear.

He steps away, giving a smile he doesn’t really mean.

“Goodbye, Buck.”

And Steve turns his back on everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm so evil. ONE MORE CHAPTER I SWEAR!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m a terrible person, you know I’m a terrible person, so let’s just move on and finish the story. 
> 
> SEVERE angst and SEVERE cheese await you. You have been warned. 
> 
> P.S. Added a new tag. Please take heed, as it might greatly affect some readers.

The art show is in two weeks. The flyers are burning a hole in his kitchen counter, and Becky is giving him the silent treatment.

She’s obeying him – although the word creates something ugly within him – but it’s with glares and silences that leave his heart heavy and his mind buzzing. It’s not his fault, he swears.

 _Stop lying_ , a little voice whispers in his ear, _Everything is your fault._

Steve returns to his knitting, frantic to forget.

“Steve,” Peggy says. He doesn’t hear her come in, the pads of his fingers feeling swollen and sore as he grips the knitting needles with abandon. He can’t remember when he stopped knitting, just that the shooting pains through his fingers are some kind of satisfaction he doesn’t want to name. “ _Steve._ ”

Her hands cover his own, and he looks up.

Peggy’s hair is perfectly curled, in one of those 1940’s styles she favours so much. It’s a beautiful chocolate brown, and Steve knows he could get lost in it if he wanted to. He _has_ gotten lost in it before, a long time ago when nine year olds and their older, adult brothers weren’t digging themselves deep into his chest and refusing to come out, the holes they’d made for themselves unfillable. Peggy’s deep brown eyes flick between his own, and he recognises the look in them with a vague sense of familiarity.

Peggy is concerned.

“Steve,” she repeats, like she’s said his name more times than he can remember, “What’s going on?”

When was the last time he saw Peggy? God, it feels like an age. But Steve knows the last time he saw her was that fateful night at Bucky’s work place, and he cringes automatically at the memory.

“ _Steve._ ”

He snaps to attention, his head jerking up to look into her eyes once more.

“I told him,” Steve says – at least, he thinks he does. Peggy’s mouth isn’t moving and he doesn’t think anyone else is in the room, so that voice must be his. “I told Bucky about–”

He can’t finish, but the look on his friend’s face tells him he doesn’t have to.

She pries the needles from his numb hands with force, his grip strong and clawed like he can’t bear to part with the instruments. Placing them gently down onto the table, Peggy turns back to him, her hair swinging over her shoulders. Steve stares, mesmerised. Peggy has always been mesmerising.

“Steve,” She starts softly, and her hands come up to rub against the sides of his head, the shorter hair allowing the scratch of her nails to send shivers down his spine. “If he doesn’t understand, then it’s best that you leave.”

“He _doesn’t_ understand,” seethes Steve, mouth twisting in anger, “He can’t ever. He thinks it’s _okay_ , that I was _saving_ people–!” His eyes return to Peggy’s, blue boring into brown in despair and incredulity and longing, “How can I– when I–?” He can’t articulate his thoughts, the jumble of them bouncing against his skull like a game of Pong. Memories flash across his mind: the acrid smell of blood assaulting his nose through the blinding dust; a cloying sense of realisation; the revulsion when Bucky told him everyone had their demons when he didn’t _know_ , when he didn’t realise Steve had demons worse than everyone else, demons that may as well have been the devil because they weren’t going away, and they whispered terrible truths into his ears.

Steve crashes forward in a hopeless bid to rid himself of his memories, his lips gentle against Peggy’s despite the desperation of the action.

She pulls away after a long moment, her hands moving from just above his ears to his rough, wet cheeks. 

He’s crying.

“Oh, _Steve_.” breathes Peggy, and the sound of her pity breaks him in two like not much else can. She leans her forehead against his, and he knows that she will forgive the kiss by morning if she hasn’t already. Steve has always had a weakness for Peggy, and it bares itself at the worst moments. 

Steve’s not in love with Peggy, but sometimes it’s a close, unidentifiable thing.

They stay like that for minutes, hours, days – Steve can’t keep track, just knows he’s well into the hundreds of inhales and his heart is slowing down, his brain trying to compute everything that’s been said and done in the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m sorry.” he apologises, although he knows it’s not needed. He’s right, because Peggy shakes her head, her hair brushing his cheeks with every swing.

He breathes in, shaky, before extracting himself from her comforting hold. Peggy moves to sit beside him on the couch from her kneel in front of him, and her knee nudges his reassuringly.

“I don’t know whether I can go back.” he croaks, thinking of the way Becky glared at him in every spare moment, with every afternoon that Bucky didn’t turn up.

“You don’t have to go back,” Peggy tells him, and her hand slides into his. Steve grips it with everything he can, and Peggy refuses to grimace at his strength. “It’s not your job to raise that child, Steve. She has a mother and father who need to step up to the plate.”

He says nothing, consumed by the swirling indecision of his gut. 

“She also has a brother she adores. After everything you’ve told me, she’s not alone just yet.” Peggy’s hand squeezes his, and he leans into her. She lies back, her head hitting the arm of the couch and his own resting against her collarbone. Their legs swing up and Steve finds comfort in the persistent rhythm of Peggy’s heart, the _ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum_ of it lulling him into a relaxed trance.

One of her hands runs through his hair distractedly, and Steve thinks they could’ve been _something_ in another time, another world. Maybe if Steve and Bucky had been friends as kids, unlikely to think of anything more, and Steve met Peggy as an adult. He would’ve fumbled with his words, and she would’ve found it endearing. Bucky would be the friend that comforted him when things went wrong, and Peggy would be the source of all his love life problems.

 _Another world,_ Steve muses sleepily, drifting off, Peggy’s hand feeling like a mother’s in that moment.

_Another time._

It’s the last thing that crosses his mind before everything turns blurry and dark, Steve floating off into sleep like a recently cried-out baby.

 

*

 

He goes back.

“I’m surprised to see you.” Natasha comments on Monday. Steve doesn’t say anything, but waves goodbye to a sullen Becky. Olivia is looking over her shoulder back at him, her eyes unreadable.

He turns to leave, silent, before Natasha’s small, perfectly manicured hand falls onto his arm. He stops, clenching his fists and his jaw to hold back the rude retort on the tip of his tongue. 

“Walk with me for a bit.” she suggests, although with the way Steve wants to stand up straight and salute, he realises it’s more of an order than anything else. He complies.

An unpleasant feeling grows in his belly, like his battle instincts are telling him he’s about to be ambushed and he needs to _run, run, run_.

Upon reaching the front door of a nondescript flat, Steve realises that Natasha has led him to her own apartment. When the door opens and he’s greeted with a well-furnished living area, his confusion barely has time to grow before she’s distracting him with more talk.

“Here’s the deal,” she starts, jolting Steve out of his pondering thoughts. He looks to her, and her expression is firm and unrelenting. Trepidation itches at him. “Normally I like to sit back and watch this kind of thing unfold, but to be frank the two of you are two of the most oblivious and idiotic people I have ever met, and the entertainment has turned into frustration on my end.”

She says all of this quickly, and Steve is reeling at the information dump.

“So listen carefully, because I’m only going to say this once: Bucky is basically in love with you.”

Steve’s head pulls back like someone has yanked on his hair, and his eyes are wide at the proclamation. 

“That’s right,” Natasha confirms smugly, crossing her arms. She’s standing in front of her couch, but making no move to sit. Steve is by the door, shocked and confused. “I have to say, you surprised me, Rogers. I thought for sure you’d quit by the end of the week.” Steve’s mouth is open, and his thoughts feel sluggish and foreign.

“I couldn’t,” Steve rasps, his eyes flicking wildly between hers, “Not when Becky needs me.”

Natasha smiles, small and pleased, and Steve feels his heart fill to almost bursting so quickly it is almost like he has whiplash.

“I’m going to tell you something.” She says, sitting down and leaning back, her arms resting on the back of the couch like it’s a throne, “And you can make of it what you will. Sit,” she adds after a slight pause, and Steve scrambles to sit across from her in a frumpy armchair, something that doesn’t quite fit with the image of Natasha he has in his mind.

Her eyes pierce into Steve’s, and he swallows down any of his questions, waiting patiently.

 _Bucky is basically in love with you._  

It was echoing in his head. 

_(Bucky is basically in love with you. Bucky is basically in love with you. Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

“Bucky doesn’t talk about it.” Natasha says, and Steve inhales deeply at the name, “He doesn’t think there’s anything to talk _about_. But it’s stayed with him for years, and he doesn’t let himself _have_ things. I only managed to get it out of him with copious amounts of vodka.” 

Somehow, Steve doesn’t doubt that attempting to drink Natasha under the table would result in him also spilling all his secrets to the redhead. He makes a mental note not to challenge her.

“It should be something he tells you himself, but I…” For the first time since Steve has met her, Natasha seems unsettled, “I wouldn’t put him through that again. It took him a while to relax around me after.” 

 _(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_  

Steve’s throat feels dry and scratchy, and he’s desperate to pull out his cell and dial Bucky’s number – long ago memorised – and hear his voice, even if the likelihood of him picking up would be slim. Voicemail would suffice, though; but he resists. 

“There’s a reason Winifred hates him, more complex than simply being a bad influence on Becky,” Natasha raises an eyebrow, staring at Steve intently. “Bucky’s mother died when he was nine.”

Steve doesn’t move, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward and his head hangs between his bunched up shoulders. He feels heavy, like the weight of everything rests upon him. The last few months suddenly seem like an insurmountable burden.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

“Winifred was friends with the family. Francesca was sick for a while before she passed, and Winifred always felt Bucky’s energy was too much for her. Francesca loved Bucky more than anything, though – more than her husband, even. Richard grew more distant as the illness took over his wife. When she died, Bucky felt like he’d lost both of his parents.” Natasha purses her lips ever so slightly when Steve looks up, his jaw clenched with his rising anger. “He told me that Winifred blamed him for Francesca’s death, and his own father never defended him. Not everyone sees it, but–” Her eyes harden as she stares at Steve, “Neglect is a form of abuse so easily hidden, but not so easily recovered from. Bucky was invisible to them. You can imagine the kinds of things he did to get their attention.”

Steve’s jaw is aching by now, and his anger feels like flames licking at his veins, his blood rushing hotly like it’s ready to burn right through him. Bucky’s equally distant and clingy behaviour, the way he avoided Steve at only the smallest perceived slight… how every part of his life seemed seeped in anger, and yet there was a softness, a vulnerability in him when he looked at his sister, one of the few (maybe only) people who loved him unconditionally, who didn’t blame him for a thing.

Steve’s heart flips, and his chest feels tight and hot as he remembers the way he said goodbye to him, ignoring anything Bucky had to say in favour of leaving, escaping the misery that stretch of alleyway outside the club was causing him.

So many people have left Bucky, whether by accident or by design, and all he wants is to feel like he can hold onto something. Winifred’s disapproval and blame means Bucky feels he ruins everything he touches, and his father’s complete disregard for his own son in his grief means Bucky feels like the one person who loved him – his mother – left him for good the day she died.

Suddenly, the knowledge that Bucky had slept with almost every nanny since he knew what desire felt like doesn’t seem so funny anymore. It seems like a desperate call for attention from a person who subconsciously thinks it’s the only way they can get it.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

He stands up abruptly, and Natasha’s eyes follow him.

Bucky’s protectiveness over his sister, the way he seemed unable to be around her and his step-mother at the same time. Steve had felt it a little odd that such a strong personality like Bucky couldn’t stand up to Winifred, but Steve hadn’t really been able to either and so had let it go. Now, though, it all made a sick sort of sense.

Steve hasn’t even met Richard Barnes, but he hates him. Fiercely and without remorse. 

“So when I–?” He doesn’t finish, but Natasha nods in response. Steve’s heart falls. When he rejected Bucky, when he ignored him so obviously… Steve is amazed by the guilt he is capable of feeling, seeping into every pore of him and throbbing in time to his miserable heartbeat.

There’s a part of him that can’t hit the send button on the multitude of texts he composes over the next few days, so carefully worded. He can’t tell Bucky over the phone that he knows, that he’s sorry for bringing back repressed memories because he’s _such an idiot_.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

The guilty part of him (is it not all of him?) tears into him, shouting out its frustration at the back of his head with every deleted text or aborted call. It crawls across his skin, making him itchy and uncomfortable. Annie’s soft fur is no longer a comfort, the sight of Peggy’s lipstick on his unwashed mugs fills him with nothing, and the knowledge on Wednesday night that he’d normally be washing dishes with Bucky instead of doing it alone means he’s swallowing down bile at the kitchen sink, hands limp in luke warm soapy water. 

Steve feels washed out, scooped out, void of anything.

He didn’t think he was being obvious, as contained and as numb as he felt, but when Friday rolls around that week and Becky pushes him as hard as she can upon arriving home after school, Steve snaps out of it.

“Stop it!” Becky cries, her little fists punching into him at the highest point she can reach, which is his hip, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

“Becky–” starts Steve, but has to stop to crouch down and hold her up by her shoulders. Her cheeks are wet with tears, and Steve feels his own burn with unshed ones. The feelings seem to burst out of him, the numb wall he’d subconsciously constructed blowing to pieces at the first proper look into the girl’s distraught face.

“He needs you!” Becky exclaims through her tears and Steve grabs at her wrists, which are flinging wildly about, hoping to connect with anything, “ _I_ need you! _Come_ _back!_ ” She screams the last, the sound echoing in the hallway as Steve pulls her toward him.

Her small, tired body falls into his in exhaustion, the contrast between his muscles and her bony frame seeming so delicate, so precious. It’s the first time Steve has hugged her, and he realises that maybe Bucky isn’t the only child to be affected by the death of Francesca Barnes, even if it’s indirectly.

“Shh,” murmurs Steve, tears falling down his face as Becky hiccups, her little chest jerking, “I’m here. I promise I’m not leaving.” He feels ripped open, bare and on display.

“I just want you to be okay,” Becky says quietly into his neck, muffled. Steve freezes, his muscles coiling in surprise, “You haven’t been okay for a long time.”

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

Steve doesn’t say anything.

On Sunday, Becky has a flyer to the art show. On Saturday, she promised to bring her brother, her eyes determined. 

Steve spends the day wandering around bereft.

The thing about all of this – telling Bucky why he was the way he was, hearing about Bucky’s past… it felt so much bigger than his own worries and insecurities he’d had over their first kiss, his own feelings. Everything paled in comparison. The art show itself doesn’t hold the excitement he knows it should, considering it had always been one of his dreams. 

He feels stuffed full of cotton, the only substance to him in the way Bucky feels about him.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

He can’t stop replaying it over and over in his head to the point where Natasha’s frank tones turn into Bucky’s miserable ones, and the sentence morphs from its original into _‘I’m in love with you’_.

Steve had dreamt of the different ways Bucky could say it. It could be heartfelt and honest; the way everyone wants to be told someone is in love with them. It could be cruel and bitter, like Bucky hates that he loves Steve and wants to be free of him. He could say it sadly, as if he’s given up all hope of Steve returning his feelings (this is the worst one, and the way Bucky’s blank face resonates through his head well after he wakes makes him feel ill and shaky).

He sits in the park, knitting needles abandoned for pen and paper, the permanency of the writing implement scratching away at his canvas feeling too close to home. That evening held the kind of inevitability Steve usually avoids, and the knowledge that he can’t come away from it the same person who enters rattles him.

A picture forms in front of his eyes without his permission.

A child stands alone, looking into Steve’s eyes like everything that’s ever gone wrong in the world is his fault. The child is both angry and sad, both determined and defeated. The child is thin and bony, like it hasn’t had the presence of mind to eat enough. The child’s hair is lank and tired, like the bags under their eyes. The child is both a victim and a survivor.

A different sort of Rebecca Barnes stares back at Steve.

He rips up the picture, and throws it in the trash on the way home, Annie pulling excitedly on the lead at the thought of dinner. 

When his bell buzzes for Peggy a bit later, he lets her in with a strained smile.

“You haven’t dressed yet?” she asks, looking him up and down. Her black number looks especially classy, and Steve feels woefully underdressed. 

“Well, I _was_ dressed until I saw you.” He remarks, turning around with a grumble and walking through to his bedroom.

Peggy follows, the boundaries that never existed between them inconsequential. Steve tears off his dark henley, and searches for an appropriate button down shirt.

“Here,” Peggy says, pushing a navy blue one into his anxious hands, “This one is your favourite.” Steve doesn’t comment on how Peggy knows this, and instead goes to iron the shirt. It’s been a long time since he’s had cause to wear something so nice, so the tailored black slacks Peggy throws at him also need an iron. His friend is silent as she watches him do the chore, and Steve is focused so intently on it that he almost jumps when she _does_ speak five minutes in.

“He’ll come,” she promises, and Steve looks up at her smiling face, the red lipstick she favours catching his attention like it always does, “There’s no need to look so worried.”

“I’m not worried.” Steve replies automatically, but the sceptical expression on Peggy’s face lets him know she doesn’t believe a word he says. He scowls.

Giving Annie a distracted farewell pat and locking the door behind them once he’s properly dressed and Peggy’s run her hands through his hair with gel, Steve ignores the crinkle of the flyer in his pocket as they descend the stairs of his apartment building.

Catching a cab to the event seems excessive, but Peggy insists that they show up in style (“A yellow cab is showing up in style these days?” “Be quiet, Rogers.”) and so the trip takes a lot less time than it usually would. Steve is both thankful and not so thankful – the long trip he’d anticipated would have left him a lot of time to prepare for the sight of him, but it also would have meant he’d have more time to work himself up.

The show itself is hosting many artists as well as Steve himself. For all that he’s in the program, he never actually took the time to read over the flyer. He pulls it from his pocket now, flattening it out on his thigh before his eyes can rove over it curiously.

_NEW YORK’S MINIMALISTIC TALENT_

It reads, and Steve wants to snort.

_THE JOURNAL GALLERY of Williamsburg supports undervalued mid-career artists, as well as young and emerging artists. This particular exhibition boasts those that use minimal mediums such as pencil, or pen. In contrast to the Gallery’s previous exhibitions, the MINIMALISTIC exhibition accepted entries from those who wished to sponsor the artist, not the artists themselves. Funded completely by the sponsors, entries were then shortlisted by the Gallery’s owners to be in the final selection. The final selection are works that represent NEW YORK CITY in ways not often thought of by many. The MINIMALISTIC style acts as a dichotomy to the common perception of the city as a bustling hub of the arts, business, and entertainment._

“You sponsored me?” Steve asks in surprise, looking up from the flyer at Peggy, who is standing next to him.

 She says nothing, her lips twitching as if to smile. Her arm looped through his, she pulls him along. Steve squeezes past the other people in the room. There are more people than he expected, although he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he _did_ expect.

Coming to a stop, Steve frowns at Peggy in askance before turning to the works in front of them.

They’re his.

“Sponsored by Howard Stark– really? _Pegs,_ ” Steve adds warningly, turning to his friend, “What did you do?”

“I might have accepted his proposal.” She says, raising an eyebrow with a smile.

“Of marriage?” splutters Steve. Peggy rolls her eyes.

“No, you daft imbecile. He asked me out to dinner, and I said yes – on this one condition. Worth it, don’t you think?” 

Steve looks back to his drawings. 

They’re a little crumpled, considering he stashed them in a cupboard without a thought. But they’ve been flattened as much as is possible without ruining the effect, and somehow the slight creases add to the whole thing.

There’s only two of them, and they’re relatively small; a modest undertaking for the gallery considering Steve walked past some extremely big pieces by the entrance.

The first is his drawing of Becky and Annie, and the sight of them both looking so happy sends a thrill through his bones. It hadn’t felt completed when he’d locked it away, but the drawing is undoubtedly finished. Becky’s ribbon seems to gleam in the captured sunlight despite the fact the whole image is made out of graphite, and Annie’s teeth don’t look menacing despite the way she has them bared. Becky’s face is full of laughter, and Steve can almost hear it as he stares at them both. The stick in Becky’s hand is high up in the air, Annie’s eyes on it doggedly. Behind them, a blur of indistinctive figures and trees emphasise the clarity of the piece’s protagonists. Steve can’t look away, warmth filling his chest at the sight considering everything that’s happened recently. This drawing seems like a distant life, eons ago and waiting to be forgotten.

His eyes slide over to the drawing beside, and his breath catches.

So focused he’s been on the way Bucky might sound, he’s almost forgotten the careful way in which his face might put together an expression. Becky’s on his shoulders in this drawing, and Steve wants to touch the crinkles at the corners of Bucky’s eyes, drift down and brush against his lips. Bucky’s hands rest on his sister’s shins comfortably, and the way his mouth remains flat belies the joy present in his eyes. He seems impossibly tall in comparison to his sister, but this seems to make him seem even more brotherly, more loving.

Steve looks away, scared that if he inspects it any longer he might not be able to stop staring.

“Those were my favourite.” Peggy comments, smiling at the pictures proudly. “You’ve done well, Steve.”

“Thanks,” He chokes out, sliding her hand out from the crook of his arm and giving it a friendly pat. Taking one last look at his drawings, he backs away with a mumbled excuse, walking over to the refreshments table in the hope of breathing a little more comfortably.

“Well, well, well,” A familiar voice sings, friendly and foreboding, “If it isn’t the man of the hour.”

Sam is in front of him once he turns, glass of champagne in his hand and a grin on his face. One of his hands reaches out to clap Steve on the shoulder.

“This is great, man,” He says, and Steve tries not to flush at the proud tone of his friend, “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I didn’t invite you.” Steve snarks, grinning. Sam waves him off, scoffing.

“Same difference. Look, that redheaded chick over there is giving me the eyes–” Steve turns, following Sam’s line of sight to see Natasha gazing evenly at them. He raises an eyebrow at Sam, who looks pleased. “She seems to know you. Mind introducing us?”

Steve holds back a comment on Sam’s likelihood of success with Natasha, preferring instead to watch him fail miserably as payback for all the times his friend laughed at Steve’s crush on Bucky.

“Natasha, this is my friend Sam. Sam, this is Natasha.” He says once they’ve sidled up to the redhead. She’s donned a white, form-fitting dress with an extremely low neckline, and Steve is steadfastly avoiding looking at her chest. The way he’s boring into her eyes is sure to be unnerving, but Natasha simply smirks.

“Nat, they didn’t have any vodka – I honestly don’t know why you thought they would – but I got you some potato salad instead– oh, who are these drooling idiots?” A blond-haired man says it all very quickly as he appears out of nowhere, peering curiously at the two of them.

“This is Steve and his overly enthusiastic friend Sam.” Sam raises his eyebrows, surprised.

“What? Sorry, my hearing aids were out.” Natasha’s friend says, frowning at her. She flicks him in the ear, and he fails to bat her hand away.

Steve goes to say something – to ask who this blond guy his, why he’d substitute vodka for _potato salad_ of all things, and to defend his complete _lack_ of drooling, thanks very much – but loses steam, his eyes focusing on a familiar head ten or so feet behind the newcomer.

He steps forward, pushing between Natasha and her friend – who squawks indignantly, almost spilling his red wine on Steve’s shirt – and walking towards the other man.

“I don’t get the whole single-minded thing,” The man says from behind Steve, “An ‘excuse me’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Yes, Clint.” Natasha intones, and Steve can imagine the roll of her eyes.

“Buck.” Steve breathes once he reaches him, and the man in question turns around.

Of all the things Steve imagined Bucky might do upon seeing him, the last thing he expected was for him to give Steve a blinding smile.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

“Steve.” Bucky says, his eyes crinkling. Steve’s stomach gives a swoop, and he’s helpless to do it.

_(I’m in love with you.)_

Striding forward the last few steps, Steve takes in the surprise in Bucky’s eyes before capturing his head between his palms and leaning in, pressing his lips softly against Bucky’s.

There’s a freedom to the kiss that Steve’s never felt before. Every other kiss with Peggy, or a failed date, or a mutual hook-up, or even with Bucky – they all held some kind of external pressure, a worry that wouldn’t leave him and tainted every embrace with an inevitable conflict.

This kiss is pure, though. The way their lips brush against each other’s, the way Bucky’s breath hitches and Steve’s hands feel hot against his cheeks – all of the reactions Steve is cataloguing aren’t tarnished by the worry that it will all go to hell in a hand basket. There’s a certainty to it that Steve falls in love with as soon as their tongues touch. 

He realises belatedly that what they’re doing might be a little inappropriate considering he is _featured_ in this classy art exhibition, but he can’t seem to muster up the effort to care. 

He breaks away, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth to lick away the taste of Bucky. 

“Just–” Bucky looks gobsmacked, his mouth slightly parted in shock, “Just think about it, alright?” Steve drops one last kiss on Bucky’s slack lips before removing himself completely, only looking back over his shoulder once to see Bucky unmoved, eyes still wide.

 

*

 

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Natasha says as soon as he picks up, and Steve laughs.

“I’m a dramatic kind of guy.” Steve explains, looking out the window at the New York City skyline from the cab, the twinkle of its lights endearing him to the city instead of making him think of light pollution and the complete lack of sparkling stars in the sky like it usually does.

“I’m beginning to realise that.” Her tinny voice comes through, and the way in which her tone is completely deadpan makes Steve laugh loudly once more, his chest feeling fit to burst, his legs jittery.

“Tell him he broke Barnes.” The blond – Clint – speaks up, and Natasha relays the message.

Steve is still chuckling to himself when he unlocks the door to his flat, Annie huffing excitedly from the other side. He greets her with more enthusiasm than he has in weeks, and she’s bounding around the flat in no time, Steve chasing after her playfully.

Once they settle on the couch ten minutes later, Steve’s shirt now untucked and his shoes toed off, Steve’s nose is buried in the newly-washed fur of his dog, and he can’t stop grinning.

He feels alive. The blood pumping through his veins isn’t fighting to burst from him, and his head doesn’t pound with unwanted memories; he feels every inch of skin, his heart beats steadily (neither too loud nor too quiet), and his muscles feel energised. Steve feels like he could run ten miles without breaking a sweat.

It’s invigorating. And to think that being in love was all it took to feel this way… if Steve had known, he might have admitted it sooner.

Half an hour later, just as he’s about to move to the bathroom for a shower, a frantic knocking reaches his ears. Frowning, Steve gently dislodges the drowsy Annie from his lap and stands, padding over to the door in his socks. 

“I cannot believe you!” exclaims Bucky once Steve opens the door, pushing past him with a flourish, “You can’t just kiss me and leave! I had things to say! I had a whole _speech_ planned!”

Steve is reeling, mind a buzz of thoughts of speeches planned. Part of him regrets acting so brashly now; but at the memory of Bucky’s astounded face, he can’t bring himself to actually feel any modicum of remorse.

Bucky looks dishevelled – the hair which had previously been so perfectly styled is now in disarray; his white cotton shirt is half untucked from his dark jeans, and his cheeks are flushed red. If Steve didn’t know any better, he might have said Bucky had been up to something entirely different than following after Steve in a panic. 

“I just–” begins Steve, staring at Bucky in wonder, “I just _saw_ you, and I couldn’t help it.”

Bucky blushes fiercely, and Steve hopes fervently that he can keep making him blush like that. He stares unabashedly.

“Look, I owe you an apology,” Bucky says after an awkward moment. Steve frowns, opening his mouth to protest. “ _No,_ ” Bucky stops him, narrowing his eyes, “Let me get this out.” He takes a deep breath, frowning at the floor in consternation. “Natasha told me she– well, you know. That makes things easier, but it’s not an excuse for the way I acted. I was tactless. I shouldn’t have said those things without knowing the full story–” He breaks into an empty laugh, shaking his head with it, “ _God!_ I, of all people, should know that by now. So I’m sorry for presuming.”

Steve stares at him.

Annie pads over, sniffing interestedly at Bucky’s ankles. He gives her a distracted pat, still looking over at Steve.

“And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for being so… well, unreadable. It’s something I’m trying to work on.” Bucky adds when the silence continues, Steve still staring at him.

Steve walks over, his socked feet soft on the floor. The atmosphere is quiet, and he feels a strange sent of calm considering the subject matter of their discussion.

Crouching down to pat Annie, who is delighting in the renewed attention, Bucky joins him as he begins to speak.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Steve tells him, insistent, “I should’ve said something – I should’ve told you I was struggling with– with coming back.” He swallows thickly, closing his eyes tiredly, “I should’ve told you Peggy was in denial about liking Howard Stark.”

“Stark?” Bucky laughs, and their hands bump into each other as they pat Annie, warm and content, “Really? I heard that guy’s a bit crazy. The good kind, though. Not our kind.” He chuckles, fighting down a smile as he gazes at Steve. “You’re sweet, Steve – _God,_ aren’t you just? – but let me have this one, okay? Let me take the blame this time.” His hand stops, moving to cover Steve’s. “You’ve taken enough blame to last a lifetime.”

Annie looks over her shoulder at them, eyes imploring. They’ve stopped patting her, and she’s displeased at the fact.

“Therapy’s a great thing, Steve.” suggests Bucky. Steve looks at him; the way his eyes seem hesitant an endearing thing.

“You’re going to therapy?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, “Ever since spending time with Becky… it just seemed the right thing to do if I wanted to be around her.”

“That’s great, Buck.” The dark-haired man looks pleased at this, and Steve resolves to admire him more vocally more often.

He gives Annie’s head a rough pat before straightening up. Bucky follows suit.

“Those were some neat pictures you drew, Steve.” Bucky tells him after a comfortably quiet moment. Annie has given up, trotting back over to the couch. Bucky steps closer, and Steve feels the air between them change. His heart beats faster in anticipation, like an engine starting up.

“Neat?” echoes Steve, grinning.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes a little darker, “Nobody’s ever drawn me before.”

“They haven’t?” Steve asks sceptically, “You’re a great model.”

Bucky tamps down a smile, biting his lip. Steve’s eyes catch onto the movement, distracted. Bucky’s lips are a little chapped, but they’re red and they’re smiling. Steve refuses to look away.

“Becks looked great,” Bucky whispered, and Steve’s gaze snaps up to his eyes. They’re fond.

_(Bucky is basically in love with you.)_

“That’s what I liked most.” Bucky finishes, and his hands graze Steve’s, his right encircling Steve’s left wrist gently, rubbing a thumb back and forth. His skin comes up goosebumps. “She told me if I didn’t get my butt to that ‘pretty picture place’ that she wouldn’t talk to me anymore.” 

“Can’t argue with that.” Steve murmurs, his right hand coming up to run along Bucky’s jaw, which twitches at the touch.

Their lips come together slowly, the breath between them laboured. Steve is intimately aware of every part of the kiss. There’s no rush of feeling, no fireworks igniting in his belly. Instead, it’s something slow and burning, a fulfilment inside him that leaves him _happy_ , of all things.

He’d almost forgotten the feeling.

They break for breath for only a moment before joining at the lips again. Steve pushes at Bucky gently, and they shuffle toward the bedroom.

When Bucky’s legs hit the bed, he bends down slowly. Steve’s hands are in his hair, scratching at his scalp to make him moan quietly. Bucky’s hands are at Steve’s hips, sure to leave marks with the way they seem to be clawing at his sides. Steve continues to push Bucky back, and Bucky swings his legs up. Steve hovers over him on the bed, left hand brushing over Bucky’s chest, slowly drifting down over his abdomen. The muscles of it twitch, like the touch is sending electric shocks through his body. 

“Alright?” Steve murmurs against his lips. Bucky nods adamantly, pulling Steve’s face back down by his cheeks so they can kiss again. Steve’s hand continues its descent, pulling up at the hem of Bucky’s white shirt to untuck it fully. Awkwardly and without thought, he pulls the shirt up instead of unbuttoning it. When Bucky’s hands get caught in the buttoned cuffs, they’re laughing into each other’s mouths, huffs of warm breath that quickly turn into gasps once Bucky’s hands slide under Steve’s own shirt.

Pushing Bucky back down onto the bed slowly, Steve quickly unbuttons his own shirt, legs bracketing Bucky’s jean-clad hips, before flinging it away and attaching his lips to the side of Bucky’s neck. Bucky moans quietly, shifting his hips up as if in search of something. His head turns to his right, and after a second a strange sort of vibration starts coming from his throat.

“What–?” Steve begins, pushing up to look at him. Bucky is chuckling to himself, his eyes fixed on something. Steve turns his head, and he sees the object of Bucky’s amusement.

“Knitting for me, were you?” Bucky asks, turning back to gaze at Steve. Steve blushes, although his cheeks aren’t nearly as red as the mutilated scarf he had attempted to knit in Bucky’s favourite colour. It’s a pathetic thing, but he’d left it on his bedside table as some sort of reminder, like his love for Bucky was in danger of being forgotten.

“I love you,” Steve says simply, looking down at Bucky. “I’m in love with you.”

Bucky’s mouth is parted, his expression similar to the one he had after Steve had kissed him senseless at the art gallery.

“Steve…” murmurs Bucky.

“I’m in love with you.” Steve repeats fiercely, daring Bucky to doubt him, “I’m _really_ in love with you.” 

Bucky’s eyes look back and forth between Steve’s for a few long seconds before he smiles, soft and sad. Steve hates it.

“I’ll convince you,” He mutters, leaning down and giving Bucky a soft kiss, “Even if it takes years. Decades. I’ll do it.”

“Sounds like an arduous task.” Bucky comments, lifting his chin up as if to encourage Steve’s lips downward.

“No,” Steve says, resolving to spend hours showing Bucky just how _not_ arduous it would be, “Not at all.”

“Glad to hear,” Bucky breathes out as Steve’s mouth skims over his ribs, “It goes without saying, but I sort of love you.”

“Only sort of?” asks Steve, lips brushing against Bucky’s stomach. The confirmation settles into his bones like a well-known fact, and Steve is surprised by how easy it is to accept it once he lets himself.

“Only sort of.” Bucky clarifies, yelping when Steve nips at his sensitive hip bones in retaliation.

He’s eating his words later, of course, when he’s as closely connected to Steve as is humanly possible. When they reach their peaks together, he’s breathless, and then he’s seemingly lost them.

When they’re lying still after, chests rising and falling slowly with contented breaths, then he’s rectifying them.

“I more than sort of love you.” He admits quietly, a mess of words but the meaning clear as the tips of his fingers trace across the bridge of Steve’s nose.

Steve smiles. 

They don’t say much more for a long time, but that’s alright by him. After all, Bucky more than sort of loves him. Those are enough words for a lifetime.

 

*

 

“We’ve been through this,” grumbles Steve, rearranging the blankets on the tiny couch, “I don’t want Winifred to see me naked.”

“I just think it would be more authentic.” Bucky comments, raising an eyebrow. Steve rolls his eyes in fond exasperation 

Clint’s apartment was a mess, but for some reason it was where they’d all decided to congregate that week for movie night. Although for some reason, they were detailing The Plan™ instead of watching Marley and Me. After Sam went pale at that particular title, Steve’s pretty sure he’s thankful despite the awkward demonstration they’re currently giving to the group.

“Authenticity versus dignity,” Clint muses, taking a gulp of his coffee, “I don’t know, Cap. That’s a tough one.”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“I think the better question, here, is: Steve, will you let me take photographic evidence?” Kate put forth, one of her dark eyebrows arching mischievously.

“I think you know the answer to that, Bishop.” Steve responds calmly, although he can feel an eye twitch coming on. Bucky is still on top of him, settled between his legs, rubbing his hips in small circles against Steve’s. It’ss almost as if Bucky doesn’t know this is a demonstration, but instead thinks it to be the real thing.

“So yes?” Kate counters, smirking.

Sam shoots her an incredulous look before interrupting Steve’s no doubt indignant reply.

“Let’s keep on track here, everyone.” He tells them.

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, moving closer, “everyone listen to Sam.”

Clint looks between the two as Natasha presses close to an uneasy Sam.

“Just remember who you’re dating!” He calls across the room, cheerful.

“Oh, I will,” purrs Natasha, and Sam looks suitably alarmed.

“Kate, get back into position.” orders Clint, turning to her.

“I’m still playing Winnie?” she whines. Bucky snorts inelegantly, looking over his shoulder at the young woman.

“ _Please_ call her that when you start working for her, I beg you.”

Kate winks at him, moving to the edge of the room. 

“Three, two, one, action!” Clint exclaims, clapping his hands.

“You can’t do ‘three, two, one, action’,” Kate berates him, putting her hands on her hips. Bucky is now kissing Steve enthusiastically, but Steve’s eyes are locked on the exchange. “It’s either ‘three, two, one’, or just ‘action’.”

Clint sighs, rubbing at his forehead. 

“What does it matter?”

“Just call it again!” Steve exclaims once he breaks away from Bucky, gasping for air. His boyfriend attaches his lips to Steve’s throat, and Steve holds back a moan. “And quickly!”

Clint’s nose scrunches up in distaste. 

“ACTION!” Clint shouts, clapping his hands together loudly. From underneath Bucky, Steve can’t see Natasha or Sam – for which he is immensely grateful. He’s never living this down. 

Kate pretends to open an imaginary door, and then gives an exaggerated gasp.

“Oh my word! James! And Steven! What on God’s green earth are you doing?”

Bucky – who had resumed kissing Steve – breaks away with a loud cackle.

“Why the hell do you sound like a southern belle?!” Clint cries out, infuriated.

“I thought I’d bring a bit of a twist to the character!” defends Kate. 

“I am _not_ getting paid enough for this.” Clint mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose in his frustration.

“You’re not getting paid at all.” Sam pipes up.

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me, Bird-man.”

“Hey!” Sam says, offended, “Birds are majestic creatures!”

As they continue to squabble, Bucky shakes his head in mirth.

“Sometimes I wonder how we ever got to this point.” He says, fighting a grin.

“I don’t.” Steve replies, sighing, “I know exactly how we got here. Two months ago we confessed our undying love for each other, then one month ago we concocted up a plan to get me fired and Kate hired so we can still see Becky, and now we’re practising said plan that goes into motion tomorrow night. That’s precisely how we got here.”

Bucky is grinning down at him again now.

“FROM THE TOP!” Clint yells. Steve sees Natasha come through the door with a drink of water. When did she even leave the room? Regardless, knowing her, the chances of her beverage being a glass of vodka are just as high. 

“This is nothing compared to rehearsals for the U.N. Amity Dinners,” Natasha comments mildly, and Sam stares at her quizzically, “Those things are a mess from start to finish.”

“James!” Kate screeches, and Bucky’s eyes widen slightly before his lips come crashing down onto Steve’s with haste. “Steven! I cannot believe this! The two of you, _consorting._ Wait until my father hears about this.”

Bucky laughs again, his teeth clacking against Steve’s as he, too, lets out a chuckle.

A great sigh comes from the corner.

“Close enough, Malfoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY IT'S DONE. I'm sorry if it's terrible, but I knew if I didn't update today I wouldn't for a very long time.
> 
> I'm not prepared for CA:CW, haha. If you want to talk anything Stucky with me, head on over to [my tumblr](http://bisexualbucky.tumblr.com).


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